Posted on 05/08/2007 9:14:34 AM PDT by Valin
Gosh.
Well.
Hi! How are you? I am fine, except that my email box exploded, so I may be unable to receive any offers for “Barnyard Fun” in the next 12 hours. I will fix the situation as soon as possible, since I’m sure the world of “Barnyard Fun” is a rich, constantly renewing environment, and I don’t want to miss out on any new forms of amusement. I still don’t know what “Barnyard Fun” is, anyway; should I bring the family? I do remember the barnyard at the farm, and wasn’t fun at all. We saw a decapitated chicken run around for a while, and it was interesting, but I wouldn’t call it fun, especially if you were wearing white sneakers and he got too close.
Okay, well, now I’m curious. Let’s read the email and see what “Barnyard Fun” is all about. I’m guessing pony rides.
(#*(@#(*$!!!!!)
Okay, well, pony rides do seem to be involved, but not in the usual sense. Let’s move along.
First order of business: thank you. Thank you all, even the ones who channeled their inner Nelson and gave me a hearty HA HA. But mostly thanks to everyone who sent letters on behalf of the column – many of which, oddly enough, were longer than the column whose loss they were lamenting – and wrote words of encouragement on their blogs. And large blushing thanks to Hugh Hewitt, who spent about sixteen hours on the subject on his coast-to-coast radio show.
That said: jeez, folks, it’s not like they gutted Mencken in front of his family, or anything. The internet – and journalism – abounds with great talent in increasingly large quantities, and I am honored that you regard the work so well. But honestly, you’re embarrassing me. Please keep it up.
Today was fun. I woke with the same combination of peculiar elation and jangly-brain fever I’ve had since Friday. First I went to church to drop off things for the big garage sale; I gave them Gnat’s first trike. I remembered buying it, and how bad I felt that it wasn’t adorned with a licensed, trademarked character. It was just a generic Little Girl Trike, and it tried to make up for its deficiencies with words. Sparkle Pink Princess! Or something like that. If I’d been smart I would have called her Sparkle Pink for a few weeks before her birthday. I think it was a Huffy, which always struck me as an odd name: it’s as if they were anticipating the reaction when the kid realized it wasn’t a Schwinn. And Schwinns were the schwinnnizzle, back then
Mine was a later model from the seventies, Mine was gold. It was the best bike ever and I put one of those faux-motors on the back that made it sound like it had an engine; it had headlights, which required four D cell batteries, the cumulative weight of which exceeds the weight of a modern bike entirely. I developed a skill for riding it side-saddle - you swing your leg over while traveling at a skull-cracking rate of speed, then balance on one pedal. You do this until you drive over a sewer grate, lose control, and mash your head into the unyielding curb. I recall that moment with unusual clarity – the sense of panic was matched in my short life only by the day when I put a pebble too far up my nose to be dislodged by traditional means. (Years later, it fell out when I lost control of the Schwinn in a sewer grate.)
Anyway. I took a picture of the bike in the back of the Element, looking like a dog who thinks we’re going on a great adventure instead of being dropped off in the country (it’s okay, a farmer will take him in. He’ll have Barnyard Fun!). Off to work.
I usually write at home, since it’s easier, and I can pace and talk out loud and listen to music. But I didn’t think I’d have any writing in me today. (Although I filed a column in the morning.) The office atmosphere was a bit charged; think the morning of the day they tested the first atom bomb, and you have an idea. I had lunch in the cafeteria, something I never do, and was reminded why: you hope there’s a measurable difference between the consistency of the turkey burger and the Styrofoam plate on which it rests, but you can’t have everything. You could, however, have Salsa, this being a Southwestern Turkey burger, and I watched as the cook got out a giant industrial-sized bottle of Pace and glug out a portion with a sound like a rich, ripe beany fart. I ate at my desk and walked around talking to people, collecting rumors – they’re going to fire everyone and raze the building and publish via mental telepathy! – until I realized that I had a big feature on the 30th anniversary of Star Wars due in two days, so I wrote that.
Ninety minutes to the Big All-Company Meeting. Let’s walk! I put on my headphones and walked around downtown, and I must have looked like a madman. See, I know what’s going to happen to me, and it has its own liberating quality. So I just put on show tunes from the very limited selection of show tunes I can bear, and when “Singin’ in the Rain” came on I almost hopped up on a lamppost. Which is really the sort of thing you ought to do more often, anyway.
Then the meeting. Bar graphs were displayed. Some of them looked like basement steps built by a drunkard, unfortunately. The bad news was released: 145 positions would enter the ether. They would be pushing up daisies. They would be ex-parrots. After the meeting was over everyone regrouped according to profession, and the plans for the future were laid out. Buyouts were extended. Questions were posed. I can’t speak for all, but it seemed like people were looking at others and seeing White Star Lines caps on everyone’s head. Which is to be expected, I suppose; this sort of thing is unknown at the paper. This was the first time the blade had fallen in a long time; not since the papers were merged, the Star absorbed into the body of the Trib, had the Reaper roamed the halls, laughing loudly.
I should also note that there’s no reason we should be immune to this sort of thing. I’ve seen all my friends go through this, no matter which industry they’re in. I should also note that if I’d been fired outright, well, that’s life. If I’m not producing enough to justify my salary, make me write one or two features per week in addition to my column. And make me write longer columns! My dismay had to do with the nature of the specific reassignment, not the fact that I’d come hard up against Reality. Just so we’re clear.
After the announcement the phones began to ring; I got a call from a local TV station. They were going to be outside and wanted a reaction on the end of my column. Good Lord. Television cares? Of course, it doesn’t – but Strib cutbacks were a story, and as far as anyone knew I was the only public casualty thus far. I said I could only confirm the fact, and that was about all I had to add. Fine! So I went down, stood in front of the camera, and when the tape rolled I said:
“I regret that after 30 years of writing columns in this market, including ten with this newspaper that I love very much, this local conversation has come to an end. However, I believe that if the newspapers of the country pool their resources, we can send an Arnold-Schwartzenegger-style robot back in time to kill the inventor of the Internet, and then our future will be much brighter.”
The reporter looked at me and said “I’m sorry, I didn’t get the first part? Your column is cancelled?”
Jeebus on a Vespa. They did get a shot of me walking into the building, though, because nothing says “end of column” like someone walking back into the building.
So where do we stand? Well, I had some conversations about things, and things may happen. Other, different things may happen as well. I just know that the column ends on Friday, and now I have to write the last one.
I know how to do that. I’ve had it in my head all weekend. I still can’t quite believe it’s over, and ended in this fashion. But I guarantee you that this situation has caused far greater unhappiness and uncertainty for my fellow workers, and they don’t have email campaigners on their side. They have to worry about being shifted around to a different time of day – who will pick up the kid? They have to worry about losing their beats for something new, and wondering whether the convulsions will shake the place anew a year or two down the road. I’ll always have other outlets, no matter what happens at the paper. But there are people who’ve given their professional lives to newspapers, and not just because it was something they fell into by chance. They loved the medium.
But that’s not enough alas. Things chang. I still remember the first day I saw a web browser; it was in the offices of the Washington Post. I swear the fellow who showed me how it worked said “Wait a minute, wait a minute. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
--
Can't let this action-packed week go by unnoted: It's "24" time.
Okay, where were we? Oh. Right. Flashback to 17 hours or so ago, when Jack was talking to Piglet’s Hot Wife; we notice that their son looks a lot like Agent Doyle. Possible Luke-I-Am-Your-Father moment coming up next year.....
IBFZ?
Has anyone seen a bunny with a pancake on its head? I could have sworn there was one in here somewhere...
Lileks was wasted at the Star Tribune. He’s one of the most talented writers out there. Someone should pick him up for a national audience.
I agree. WSJ may come a calling.
No zot neeed, this is legit it seems.
Is this the columnist interviewed on Hewitt (Prager ?) about getting fired yesterday?
I confess I was hooked for a couple of years until 24 jumped the shark.
Jack, having escaped from the Chinese, saves the world a few times and then discovers that his girlfriend has been kidnapped by the Chinese and will be killed unless Jack delivers a circuit board from some Russian suitcase nukes which were captured before sandmaggot and Russian renegade terrorists blew up California.
In a stunning surprise, Jack not only decides to give the Chinese control over Russian technology, but manages to convince the second (or is it third?) black president (who isn't a rapper) to Let him do exactly that. !!
"Heroes" is on at the same time.
So it's not all bad news...
: )
Yes. Lileks is a regular guest on Hugh Hewitt and one of the best things about that show, along with Mark Steyn.
You do know that by NOT being a “24” fan that makes you a RINO loving, tree hugger, atheistic, lifetime subscriber to the Nation, I hate America, vegan COMMIE.
The cat’s litter box beats the hell out of Garrison Keillor
Thursdays are the best on Hewitt—both Steyn and Lileks.
I am sad about Lilek’s column getting the axe, but with the cuts at the Red Star, you just knew they would cut one of the good guys. **sigh**
Hey!
I gave it a shot. Two years.
Putting 306 million US residents at risk to save his girlfriend, and getting the president to go along with the insanity, just exceeded my dose of "suspension of disbelief".
Just saying...
If you think this is “zottable”, you need to got to JewishWorldReview.com and check out his archived columns. The man is pure genius and one of the most astute political satirists of our time.
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