Friday night date with the pape

I've found that in the newspaper biz people tend to want to flog stories until they're good and dead. Every story could use a follow-up, so why not multiply the fun with three, four or 10 of the same thing?

On Friday my mission was to produce our fourth article in two weeks (and I'm not counting the many columns) about the movie "Leatherheads," a film that, if you'll remember, brought a certain George Clooney to my humble town. Though I'd already written about locals' reaction to a screening of the movie, this time it was premiering to a general audience. These folks would supposedly have a new, fresh take on the flick that I hadn't already gleaned from the previous sample set.

I got there way earlier than was necessary and was accosted by the manager of the local semi-pro football team that's hosting a "throwback" game in honor of the team on which "Leatherheads" is based. This dude has harassed me before-- he tried to get me to get the editor in chief to get George Clooney to do the coin toss for this selfsame game-- and he's relentless. On Friday he insisted I had the power to choose which photo would grace my story, and told me he would buy me two dozen roses if I ensured it would be of his three bored-looking players manning a table with a leather helmet signed by the film's stars. After I emphatically explained to him that photo selection was far from being under my jurisdiction, he tried to extract a promise that I would cover their upcoming game. I'm not in sports, I told him.

"This isn't sports news; it's front page news!" he insisted. Sadly, he's probably right.

When most everyone had trickled into the theater I purchased myself a kiddie combo and climbed solo to an empty row where I could watch George and Renee try to out-sass each other for the second time. Two of the three football players made their way toward my row and excused their "wide hips" as they thrust their crotches in my face en route to the seats to my left. They proceeded to chat and text their way through the movie, the best part of which was the "Sex and the City" trailer that preceded it.

Potential blog entries brainstormed during lunch time in the Skywalk

Look at you with your angst: A description of the hooligans from the downtown alternative high school that populate the Skywalk at all hours.

Walking through the Skywalk with a sandwich in my pocket: Don’t know how much I could flesh this out, but it has good rhythm. Might make for a nice song title.

Yo spring: where you at?: March is supposed to go IN like a lion, not OUT. God. Get your facts straight, Borealis.

Hippy for a day: I unwittingly forgot to put on deodorant today and have been self-conscious about it for approximately four hours now. I have yet to hear expressions of disgust from passers-by of my cube, so I think I’m going to survive the four hours I have left at the office before I rush home and slather it on. I’m thinking about the merits of buying a second “just in case” stick to keep in my desk.

Time for a snip: I find it outrageous that in the year 2008 the mullet continues to have a strong presence on the heads of my city’s denizens, several of whom are my coworkers. Evolve, people.

An alcoholic housewife thinks I have beautiful legs

Ma Nugget and I joined Curves on Monday, a circuit-style workout haunt for middle-aged women who want to get fit, stay active and have fun with just us gals!

I usually don a sweatshirt and calf-length yoga pants, but I went with shorts yesterday because I couldn't find my desired gear. After sweatin' to the Christian rock set to a techno beat, Ma Nug and I decided to reward ourselves with a few movies from Video Vision next-door. While she put some things in the car I sprinted into the store, my bright-white legs prickling with goosebumps.

"Look at you with your short shorts!" a voice behind me called. "But you have beautiful legs! I like that attitude! Think spring! Think spring! Short shorts! Yeah!"

"Oh... um, thanks," I said. "I was just at Curves, and yeah, my legs are really pale... but thanks."

"But that's natural," she insisted while flopping her hand forward. "Me, I'm going to Arizona next week so I'm tanning a little bit-- did I TELL you the deal I got?"

"Um... no..."

"I went to Pricshline-dot-com and got four tickets--FOUR!-- for $270 easch!" she slurred. "Can you BELIEVE that??? I mean, with fuel prices the way they are." She lowered to a whisper. "That'sch bullshit." She covered her mouth and raised her eyebrows as a 7-year-old walked by. "But seriouthly... that's just CRAP! So yeah, me 'n my two kids are going to Arizona for vacation. Tucson."

At this point Ma Nugs walked in and, seeing an opportunity to escape, I offered, "Tucson? Really? My mom's from there!" As she got entrapped I slowly backed away to gather the DVDs we wanted. When I came back I could see there was no chance we were going to get out of there anytime soon.

She told us about her daughter Tiffany, who's a state-ranked swimmer with a bigger booty than hers. "And she's thish tall!" she exclaimed, reaching far above her head. "She's 6-foot?" Ma asked. "Oh no. She's 5'7''." Tiffany wants to go to a private liberal arts college in the southern part of the state but has concerns about it because another swimmer she doesn't like is planning to go there.

"What middle school do you go to?" she asked me. "Well, I went to Woodland, but I actually graduated from college last year," I said. "NO! But you look so YOUNG! College? No! I don't believe it!"

Back to Tiffany: she's 16 but has just started up with a 21-year-old who's about to graduate from college. "You better believe we shat her down and had a convershation with this young man-- who may be very nisch, but you know how sometimesh young kids get real exshited with each other-- and we just told them you gotta use protection, you know! You've sheen what'sch going on with all these girls today!"

Finally Ma was able to drag us away. After we checked out we saw that she had leeched onto someone new. "Have you ever used Prischline-dot-com???"

Newsflash: Cub Reporter Actually Knows What She's Doing

After a far-too-long hiatus on political reporting, yesterday I was finally able to go back to reporting on my first love when one of our senators made a stop in our humble town to kick off his bid for reelection.

He was late, of course, so I spent the time before he showed his mug sweating in the overcrowded, tropically moist room and shooting the shi(r)t with a broadcast reporter .

Now, print and broadcast reporters may be of the same genus, but we’re of entirely different species. While both can be cocky and/or arrogant, these traits display themselves with much more frequency in the latter. By nature of their medium, broadcast reporters insert themselves into their reports and thus must concentrate on things other than the facts, things such as the degree of shine on their faces, whether their hair has been shellacked in place, etc.

And there’s something about their mediocre level of celebrity that makes them think they’re better than us lowly scribes who hide behind our bylines. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been elbowed out of the way by a broadcaster shoving a microphone in the face of someone I was just speaking to. I can’t tell you how many press conferences I’ve attended where broadcasters talk through others' attempts to speak and then grandstand instead of just asking a damn question in a plug to get more airtime.

But I digress.

Yesterday I had been in contact with a pair of spokespeople for this senator’s likely opponent. After said senator gave his spiel, I caught up with them outside to get their impressions. The aforementioned reporter hovered around us the whole time, trying to catch my eye and at one point actually hissing my name and beckoning.

“Those aren’t [senator]’s supporters!” he said as if he were feeding me career-saving information. “They work for [the other guy]!”

“Um, I know. But thanks,” I said.

Omigod I met George Clooney

I've been handling our arts and entertainment section for the past two weeks (something I'm woefully unqualified to do) while the regular arts reporter does an in-depth project. Therefore, when rumors began swirling that George Clooney might come to town to promote his new movie, I was the go-to girl. My nosing about came to nothing, and I kind of forgot about it until last week. The newsroom got a press release stating that not only were we getting George, his co-star Renee Zellweger would tag along as well. I could hear shrieks reverberate around our building as my co-workers received the news in their inboxes.

I wrote a story for the next day's pape about their impending visit, and then went to the screening of "Leatherheads" a few days later and wrote about that, too. This, apparently, was enough to qualify me to attend the press event yesterday. When we arrived on location, over-eager public relations hussies drunk on power only allowed us to descend to our seats in groups of five. My chaise was six rows back, behind the broadcast lovelies, the Strib and PiPress scribes, the public television and public radio voices and, yes, even our local radio stations' morning show DJs. How about a little love for the hometown pape? I mean, come on! My only solace was I was right next to the mayor and his wife, who's a pretty cool chick. (I wasn't the only one getting the shaft... a video camera-wielding photog from our pape got hustled by a trashy looking PR brat in 5-inch heels, a fellow alumna who went to school for broadcast. Guess it didn't work out.)

They packed in adoring fans all around the press pen. The ones with chutzpadik climbed up onto the trains to get a better view. A scream arose from the crowd as George and Renee chug-chug-chugged up to their platform. George was wearing a charcoal suit and a saucy gray newsboy cap. Renee was wearing a tweed dress and matching jacket, with 6-inch black Christian Laboutins and pearls, natch. She looked very shiny and taut and, as my dad likes to say, like she was farting lemons. George flashed his Sexiest Man Alive smile and made the ladies in the crowd swoon.

The mayor presented them with extremely phallic trophies-- blocks of wood with helmets on top-- and declared Mar. 24 Leatherheads Day. The fancy up-front reporters lobbed nothing but softballs at the stars (so how do you like our town? what's it like to be a celebrity? you have fans. what would you say to them if you could? it's cold here, huh?), to which they responded with a charming, witty repartee. Well, for the most part. Most of the questions went to George so Renee spent a lot of time looking bored and farting lemons.

The last question went to a woman in the crowd who had knit the pair mittens. It was all so hokey and heartwarming. I had made it my mission for the day to find out what George smells like, so I followed him around like an awkward, lost puppy trying to get a whiff. He turned around and saw me, shook my hand, and told me to have fun. Unfortch, didn't get close enough.

I proceeded to the front entrance, where they were scheduled to make a public appearance, to talk to some fans. There was a babushka who police weren't forcing behind the barrier, so I decided to lob her some questions. After a few I could tell she wasn't all there, so I aborted the interview. "I don't know what I'm doing here," she said. "I just saw all the people so I came down. I turned 85 last week. Here, look at my birthday card. Oh, is that him?" she asked, indicating a PR flack.

I migrated to the other side of the crowd, which ended up being a bad choice. As soon as George popped his head out of the door, the middle-aged women around me surged toward the barrier, screaming, "George! I love you George! George, come here! George!" A cameraman bopped me on the head quite a few times with his gear, and somehow ended up stepping all over my pants... I have footprints on them now. George was extremely gracious, greeting fans on either side of the entrance and even going to the other side of the street. Renee only greeting one side before lunging into the safety of her luxury SUV to fart some more lemons.

Wink thinks it's been too long since I've posted and I think she's right

The Setting: Subway. Skywalk. 1 p.m.
The Characters: Saucy Sandwich Artist, Hungry Man*

Saucy Sandwich Artist: What can I get for you?
Hungry Man: I’d like a 12-inch wrap.
SSA: (Prolonged guffaw) You want a 12-inch wrap?!? A wrap’s a wrap, sir. They ain’t got sizes.
HM: Well, I want a 12-inch turkey-bacon sandwich, but on a wrap.
SSA: So you want the double meat then?
HM: I guess.
SSA: (Starts making sandwich) Shoo… a 12-inch wrap. That’s good. That’s a good one.
HM: (Looks awkward)
SSA: Well don’t you worry, honey, I’m gonna make it real meaty for you.

And… scene.

*Events have been slightly dramatized

Windchill dies; city's collective heart breaks

Last night, out of nowhere, little Windchill the 10-month-old colt died in his sleep. He was rescued from unbearably frigid temperatures three weeks ago, and given a 1 percent chance of survival. Amazingly, he not only survived, he thrived. He was putting weight on his emaciated frame, and with the aid of a sling he was able to hoist himself on his frost-bitten legs and stand.

Though I often complained about covering his recovery, I never wished him ill and am surprised by the feelings of my icy heart melting upon news of his death.

RIP, Little Neigh.

Waterworks

I have this thing with authority figures. I not only respect them, I kind of fear them, I guess. Some people, certain journalism professors, perhaps, might think this would preclude me from being a good reporter, but it's not real authority figures (i.e. elected officials) that get my goat, but rather bosses, teachers and doctors. Ever since I was little, having a one-on-one with those types brought me close to tears, even if the meeting was completely positive.

Aside: there was a professor in the J-school I really looked up to and saw as my mentor. We'd chat at least once a week about my classes, the college pape and other things going on in my life. Even THAT made me want to cry. Now you see what I mean.

The recurrence of my pestilence this week meant another trip to the doc today, and this one took on a special sense of urgency: I'm leaving for Paris on Monday, and I need to be in tip-top shape for the trip I've been planning for months (and dreaming about since I was a fetus). While I waited for Herr Doctor I browsed through a coffee table book he had on hand about European castles. Versailles, of course, was the second one featured, and the sight of it made me tear up as I thought about the travesty that would be missing this trip.

I tried to calm myself, but to no avail. As Doc listened to my lungs and did a particularly nasty test for influenza that involved sticking an elongated Q-tip up all the way up my nose, tears started rolling down my cheeks. At first he attributed it to the discomfort, I think, but when I started sniffling as well he asked me if everything was OK.

"I'm su-supposed to go to P-Paris on Monday!" I wailed. "I c-can't miss this trip!"

He assured me that based on my description of my symptoms it appeared I would be on the mend within a few days. Talk turned to fevers. Was I experiencing particularly bad ones?

"Well it seems to get worse when I'm stressed at work," I offered.

He asked me what I did.

"I'm-I'm a reporter," I said, tears starting up again. "I'm sorry, but they're making me cover this ho-horse all the time."

He asked me what I usually cover.

"P-pol-i-tiiiiiiiiiics!"

With a concerned look on his face, he backed out of the room to check on my lab results. Meanwhile I drank five Dixie cups of water and took deep, cleansing breaths to calm myself down. When he came back in, I told him I had remembered a symptom I hadn't yet told him about. Sometimes, I said, I start to cough so hard I gag. I don't actually throw up, but I feel like I'm going to.

He told me the coughing neurons live right next to the vomiting neurons in the brain, so sometimes when the coughing stirs up too many electrons my brain thinks I need to puke. I told him I was relieved it didn't mean I had a puke-inducing stomach bug as well because I hadn't puked in more than five years.

"Oh. You mean self-induced vomiting?" he asked, insinuating I was five years from a bulimic past.

"No!" I responded, horrified. "It's just, you know, a personal record."

Mortified that he now thought I was a recovering bulimic as well as schizophrenic, I started crying. Again.

Not having sick days is sick.

Being a permalancer is kind of like being an intern, but worse. None of my post-college employment opportunities has offered me benefits. No insurance. No 401(k). No moving assistance. No compensation for work-related expenses.* No such thing as a free lunch (or dinner, as Wink used to enjoy every Wednesday night).

But one thing my internships had going for them was I was paid by stipend. I could take a day off here and there to recuperate if I was physically sick or to return to the Great State of Minnesota if I was homesick.

Now I’m paid by the hour, and since I’m not the beneficiary of those glorious luxuries called Sick Days, if I’m near death and stay home I’m SOL. An evil pestilence took residence in my sinuses at the beginning of the last pay period, resulting in me having to take two days off of work… and I probably should have taken at least one more.

Those two missed days resulted in a $150 cut in my paycheck.

I’ve always thought it was kind of weird to get paid for not working, but the last time I had an hourly job (Duluth Omnimax Theatre circa 2004) I was able to switch or pick up shifts to make up hours. That’s pretty near impossible here. I could offer to work on the weekends, but it’s nowhere near as flexible as your average wage slave job. They already have weekend staff working on set schedules.

After a brief recovery at the end of last week, yesterday I picked up a hacking cough out of nowhere. This morning that cough has coupled with body aches to make me completely miserable. But instead of taking the day off to recuperate and thus reducing both the amount of time I’m sick and the likelihood that I’ll infect others in my work environment, I have to work to make bank.

So. Lame.

*Unless I’m driving somewhere for an assignment. Then my new job gives me 32 cents a mile or something. But I don’t get reimbursed for parking fees, nor did I get a reduced transit plan when trains were my transport mode of choice, something I’ve realized many other employers at big-girl jobs provide.

How to Obtain Severe Mortification

First, be on the phone with a source. Make that a very helpful, important source. Scatter a few coughs throughout the interview. Then, when he's telling you something very important, start coughing more... uncontrollably, in fact. That's good. Now try to tell him you're sorry and you've been very sick, but choke on the words instead. If you're doing this right a degree of panic will now be in his voice. He should offer to to call an ambulance for you. In a brief respite tell him you're... cough, cough... fine... cough, cough, cough. Then rasp, as creepily as possible, "Thank you for all your help."

Once you're off the phone, start coughing like you really mean it, to the point where you're gagging and very nearly throwing up. Make sure a single tear falls out of your left eye and dramatically down your cheek for effect. This fit should last a good five minutes, despite the water you're gulping and the cough drop you're furiously sucking on as if it were the sweet teat of life.

You should have brief spells of repose in between your coughs so your coworkers think they can finally get some work done now that The New Girl has finally shut up before you start up all over again. Get so worked up you're all sweaty and your face is the same color as your red sweater. If you're really enterprising, sprinkle some trumpeting nose blows in there. Good. Real good.

Pros and Cons: Being Sick

Con: I'm sick as a dowg.
Pro: I'm home, so I can profit from my parents' doting ministrations. My ma's been making me this excellent honey lemon tea. She also bought me jello and ice cream, which is pretty much all I ate when I had mono.

Pro: I no longer have a sore throat.
Con: Now I have a wracking cough and stuffed up nose, the consequences of which are the following: I must now breathe through my mouth, resulting in rancid breath, chapped lips, constant thirst and the inability to taste things.

Pro: Now that I'm back on insurance I was actually able to go to the doctor.
Con: He tested me for strep and mono, and when both came back negative he threw his hands in the air and yelled, "Now what?!? I don't know what you have and I DON'T CARE!"*

Con: I had to turn down an offer to go to the Cities and thus must suffer through another series of never-ending days to see my beloved.
Pro: Spent date night with the 'rents, going out to dinner and watching a movie. Their treat.

Pro: I stayed home from work on Thursday and caught up on a lot of reading and knitting.
Con: I had to go the whole day without a horsicle update and I was worried he'd croaked.
Pro: Went back to work yesterday and wrote our fourth update on the little guy. Local cover, bee-yotch. This critter's becoming my meal ticket.

*Slight dramatization

Horse-lovers heap hope on horsicle

When I was reporting the tale of a noble rancher determined to save a 9-month-old colt who had been left outside sans shelter in this weekend's frigid temperatures, I did so with a heavy dose of internal groaning at having been moved to the animal beat.

But, I tell yoo hwut, I could only be so lucky to have such an assignment. This story was plastered over a third of the front page and has been on our website's "most read" list all day long. People have called and emailed me asking where to send donations and extra blankets for the little guy. My managing editor approached me this afternoon to tell me the story had made her cry.

A woman calling herself a "faith healer who has been laying my hands on people for a long time" also called to offer her services to the horse. She described herself as a "child of God" who has visions and psychic powers. I called the rancher with tongue planted firmly in cheek to relay the offer, and by golly he's going to take her up on it.

I don't think I've ever had close to this much response on a story I've written. Now I'm itching to do the epitome of this kind of article: Singed Llama Carries Twin Babies on Back to Safety from Petting Zoo Blaze.

Can't "C" just be for Cookie?

Yesterday I was assigned an article about convicted child molesters. Today it’s a cold colt—a colt that was left outside in last Saturday’s freezing temperatures and is barely alive. But apparently it’s alive enough to warrant an article. I’ll be driving a total of an hour and 10 minutes to seek out the horsicle and describe its frigid environs.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m crazy about the equine race. Not so crazy about pedophiles, but hey, I’ll take it. I’m just worried about the precedence this seeming pattern of C-stories is setting.

Tomorrow could have me out in search of another brand of Crazy Creature. Or perhaps it’ll be a look at the in-Crease in Callouses in Cloquet or Carlton. Maybe it will be a story about the City’s Comptroller, a Crotchety mis-Creant who Created Craters of Credit Card debt.

The only “C” I want right now is the vitamin to cure my sore throat.

Things here are so dry...

... I'm going through a tube of Burt's Bees a week

... Walking over five feet of carpet to hug my mom goodnight transmits a lightening bolt's worth of electricity

... My throat is coated in sandpaper

... August's pre-storm sticky humidity is sounding mighty fine

... Looking people in the eye for long periods makes my eyes water and thus makes my editors think I fear them

... I had a dream last night I moisturized my face with margarine

No I can't.

This weekend one of the blogs I subscribe to posted a video of celebrities including will.i.am and ScarJo putting Barack Obama’s New Hampshire concession speech to music. It’s gone mega-viral, so I’m sure you’ve seen it already, but just in case: www.dipdive.com.

I’ve been oscillating between a handful of candidates for about a year now, but this film was so goshdarn inspiring it just about made me go out and tattoo “YES WE CAN!” on my forehead, chest, lower back and kneecaps.

But, as I often do with songs I like, I played it over and over. And over. And over over over. I have no media saturation to blame here. I did this to myself. Pieces of the song have been replaying themselves in my head for nearly a week now, and try as I might it just won’t stop.

I thought maybe watching the video again would satisfy my brain’s rabid need to hear those chords repeatedly. Wrong. I thought concentrating very hard on the song “New Soul,” which accompanies the new Mac ad, would lodge that in my brain instead. Wrong again.

I’m now at the point where hearing parts of the song in my mind’s ear makes me want to reject all semblances of change and just live the status quo under a rock until I die.