Thursday, Mar 10: Harvey Girls: Opportunity Bound
Rowdy’s Dream Blog #289: I seem to be holding a pistol while we work.
The space heater on my desk has caused a power cord to become brittle and crumbly. IS arrives to install new cables. My desk must be pushed out into the middle of a large warehouse room. I get a woman to help me wrap it up in electrical tape. My "Hold my calls" joke falls flat. The tape is old and comes off immediately in small sticky strips. I seem to be holding a pistol while we work. I tell her I think it's unloaded, but we both can see it has at least four bullets.
Bucking the Buck
Businesses combat a $1 minimum wage bump
The Daily Word in Bill Clinton, Genesis and Zozobra
I-25 / Paseo overhaul will be on the ballot in November.
Are you going to Zozobra tonight?
Doug Vaughan sentenced to 12 years for Ponzi scheme.
UNM considers making Lobo Village booze-free.
Ex-President Clinton at the DNC, a recap.
Wheelchair rugby players are rock stars.
Does email cause stress?
Freddie Mercury’s private cultural identity.
Prog awards honor Genesis.
Hungarian artist makes a subway stop magical.
Voyager’s getting close to the edge of the solar system.
NASA’s Sunita Williams fixes the International Space Station with a toothbrush.
Jennifer Aniston’s going to be in a movie shooting in New Mexico soon.
What a Way to Make a Livin’
The Daily Word in Ad-Rock, aliens vs. gods and working too hard[ Thu May 24 2012 9:12 AM ]
African American father and son say they were racially profiled, and APD took $17,000 in cash off their hands for no good reason.
Neil Armstrong almost never does interviews, but he spoke with Australian accountants about his trip to the moon.
Ad-Rock talks about MCA's death.
Who puts in the most hours at work, country-wise? How do you stack up?
KRQE scrutinizes New Mexico's pork barrel projects.
George Zimmerman was pretty tight with Sanford police.
Top two Mexican cartels stage public massacres to taunt authorities and frighten civilians.
Office break rooms are disgusting pits of germs, says guy who cares.
There may be no daily newspaper in New Orleans after The Times-Picayune announces cutback plans.
The company that owns Chicago's daily bought its weekly. (That's like the Journal purchasing the Alibi.)
Tennessee walking horse trainer pleads guilty to cruelty.
Egypt is voting for president for the first time.
Can the human race tell aliens from gods?
MIT alleviates an age-old human frustration: getting ketchup out of the bottle.
The Daily Word in earthquakes, a jailed Zimmerman and Lil B
A series of earthquakes in the U.S. was likely caused by fracking wastewater.
An earthquake in Indonesia leaves the country relatively uninjured.
The guy who plays Pinkman on “Breaking Bad” has been robbed in ABQ twice.
In Sunland Park, you can’t tell who donated to a campaign.
Two APD officers who were fired for misconduct could end up back on the job.
Zimmerman makes his first court appearance and will stay in jail.
Trayvon Martin’s family talks about the second-degree murder charge announced yesterday.
J.K. Rowling’s writing a book for adults.
Lil B’s 90-minute lecture at NYU.
This leaf may be able to easily wean opiate addicts off their drug. But the herbal remedy may soon be banned in the U.S.
Our oil’s coming from new countries.
The photos that created America’s child labor laws.
Debate about women, motherhood and work plays out between Democratic strategist Hilary Rosen and Ann Romney.
"Since there is an infinite number of alternative universes, there must be one in which there isn't an infinite number of alternative universes. Perhaps this is the one."
Car commercials with shooting.
The Daily Word in marijuana lungs, human zoo, Twinkies
Workplace violence at Albuquerque Parks and Rec.
UNM's chess club is stone cold killin' it.
Marijuana smoking not linked to lung problems.
Taliban says video of marines pissing on dead Taliban members won't affect peace talks.
The biggest polluters in the state.
Human zoo allows tourists to throw food at Jarawa people.
Class conflict is the conflict, say Americans.
Liz Lemon's flashbacks. All of them.
Pittsburgh mayor cops a Tebow.
The maker of Twinkies is filing for bankruptcy. To honor the mighty Twinkie, explore its many alternate uses.
Whiney Beethoven letter discovered.
Oakland Tribune sends a cease-and-desist order to Occupy Oakland Tribune.
Ohio landlord says her pool is whites only because African-American hair products cloud the water.
Sinead O'Connor is not in a good way.
Americans are eating less meat.
They Might Be Giants: "When Will You Die?"
The Freelancer's Prayer
Confessions of a former meeting attendee
I had an editor once who wore sweat pants to the newsroom.
I did not approve. While I’ve never been a GQ type of guy, preferring cheap khakis and work shirts to slacks and dress shirts, I always tried to dress well enough to go to court.
When my editor would come in clutching a bag of McDonalds and a lip-balancing a cigarette, decked out in blue or black sweat pants, I couldn’t help but scoff (and cringe at the knowledge that a soul-crushing, spirit-trashing staff meeting was soon to steal an hour of my day.) Sure, we are print people, but that’s no reason to dress like like one had awakened under a freeway overpass.
I’m not too big to admit that I was wrong. I wrote an article this morning dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. It was heaven. I felt like I had found Jesus after a life in mortgage banking. I have seen the light and been reborn. Hallelujah. Can I get an amen?
I am trying to freelance full time and I think I have just found the first perk among the many terrifying unknowns: no pants. Pants are overrated and a large portion of my operating budget. They have to go.
Lord, I don’t ask you for much, and I’m calling in a favor. Bless me with enough freelance work to continue to revel in the unbearable lightness of chortes. Amen.
A thousand monkeys posting a thousand tweets...
John Bear is e-tarded
Until recently, I was strictly a newspaper guy. Dead trees slathered in ink.
Now I find myself thrust into the world of web-based journalism. It started with the Alibi offering me a slot on its blog. (This post, by the way, will be the very first I put on the website, and you’re reading it.)
I have spent much of the last six years scoffing at bloggers. An editor once told me that a reporter without an editor is a blogger. He was fired for watching internet porn, so I guess everything is on the internet.
At my college paper, the other editors had Facebook and MySpace pages. I laughed at them, and proclaimed that I would never sink so low. (I have a Facebook page now.)
So I’m a hypocrite perhaps. But I’ve always been resistant to technology. I just can’t follow every new thing over the cliff like an E-Lemming. Call me stubborn. Thinking I needed one to be a serious writer, I bought a typewriter when I was 19. Soon I had a collection of IBM Selectrics cluttering my apartment. Slowly, however, they have been left behind during subsequent moves or I have suckered someone into taking one. (“Oh you’ll love it,” I lie. “Much easier than a computer. The IBM Selectric Mark Two, the big mother. Trust me.)
The worst thing about my typewriter phase is the large amount of bad, typed poetry circulating out there. It turns out that I’m not Charles Bukowski.
Web-based everything. It’s not just the wave of the future. It’s here. And I’m catching up. I’m also taking a crack at the coveted “Full Time Freelance Journalist.” It’s not easy to do, but I’m determined. This will also require a significant web presence.
A colleague who has already jumped into the abyss told me last week over cappuccinos that I’ll need a website, blog, Twitter account, etc. It’s all about shameless self-promotion, I guess. I can do that. No problem.
I’m working on the website, though it appears to have been put together by a team of monkeys. The blog account is up. I’m holding off on the Twitter account. I just can’t do it.
Right now, I feel like one of those apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey dancing around the monolith. But I have arrived late, and all the other apes have iPhones.
Stuff in My Desk
To the left, we have a bottle of Move Free Advanced, which is glucosimine for my joints. This, along with the the bottle of vitamin C, was given to me by my mother. Thanks, ma! A wee (and much used) jar o’ ibuprofen, some smelly glittery lotion my students gave to me as part of a wedding gift two years ago, dried cranberries, a Luna bar (for my lady parts) and assorted things I find on the floor and put in my desk.