the lone editor

The long version of the execution of Roy Blankenship

2011-06-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

This is an actual step-by-step account of what transpired after I arrived at the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison to witness the execution of Roy Blankenship last Thursday. The excerpts that appeared in my column in the Statesboro Herald Sunday were pulled from this narrative.

The Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison itself is located just off I-75 north of Forsyth and south of Atlanta, with the outer grounds peppered with ponds and trees. On arrival, I was met by several officers who asked for my credentials, and I handed them my driver’s license and press card. One of the officers took my ID and walked to a tent where he verified my identity. He then gave me a square of flat yellow plastic and a small strip of yellow plastic tape, and I was instructed to place the plastic square on my dashboard and to tie the narrow tape to my left wrist, thus identifying me as a media witness.

The media staging area set up for us was a grassy field to the left at the entrance to the prison grounds. Media accommodations were sparse, including only a couple of picnic tables, a tent, a porta-potty, and a cooler of (not-so-clean) water and a sleeve of Styrofoam cups. So the members of the media - all four of us - gathered there to await our ride into the prison proper, our conveyance being a Ford extended van.

At around 5:45, Greg Bluestein, the Associated Press representative was picked up and taken to the death chamber as a monitor to watch the preparations of the drugs that would be used in the execution. Shortly afterward, another van rolled up to convey Mitchell “Mickey” Peace and myself into the prison to await the execution.

Peace is the owner and publisher of the Claxton Enterprise, and along with Bluestein, we would be the media witnesses to the event. We were told to empty our pockets and leave all our belongings in our vehicles, leaving our keys with Walter Jones, a Morris News Service reporter who would stay at the staging area to interview and photograph the protesters who would gather in a field adjacent to the staging area. We were allowed to bring nothing except our personal IDs and press cards.

But as we took the slow ride toward the intimidating walls of the prison, there was some uncertainty that the execution would even take place that evening. Blankenship’s last appeal, to be heard by the US Supreme Court, was still in the works and the department of corrections was still waiting to learn of their decision.

Meanwhile, Peace and I were driven to the main entrance of the building itself, which was covered by several armed guards in riot gear who strolled around the area. This guards were a result of a lockdown, standard procedure on the day of an execution.

We were escorted around to the right of the building to pass through a metal detector, much like the units at airports around the nation. After removing our belts and shoes and pulling up our pantlegs as we cleared the detector, we walked to an area with two huge metal doors, and were allowed through the first one as it slid open with a deep hum and metallic thunk. We then were asked to slide our IDs through a small slot under a window where two female guards confiscated them and gave us small tokens that we would return on leaving the building in exchange for our driver’s licenses and press credentials. Once that business was transacted, the second door opened, revealing a long hallway. We were instructed to walk up the hall and up a stairwell at the end of the hall, with our driver escorting us step-by-step.

At the top of the stairs in a holding room, we were asked to sign waivers at a desk, and then escorted through another door opened by code with a prison employee in a suit. From there, we walked down a short hall to the prison staff breakroom/lounge, where we were offered a seat at a lunch table.

Soon, we were joined by Joan Heath, director of public relations for the institution and Johnny Sikes, deputy director of facility operations for the Georgia Corrections Division. Sikes was awaiting the call on the Supreme Court decision, so we settled in and conversed on a number of subjects. Sikes happens to be a native of Evans County where Peace’s paper is located, so there was much talk of familiar acquaintances and childhood stories.

At around 6:45, it was determined that the Supreme Court might render a decision by 8 p.m., so the banter continued until Sikes was notified that he had gotten “the call.” He left at around 7:50, and soon, our driver appeared to escort us out of the building, stopping at the double-doored entrance so Peace and I could retrieve our IDs, then back to the van for our ride to the viewing room. Heath accompanied us, so the driver opened the front door for her, then the back doors for Peace and I to climb in. We had been escorted into the prison, and now we were being escorted out to make our way to the death chamber.

(At the time, this made no sense to me, but looking back, I do appreciate the fact that we spent the two hours of waiting in a comfortable break room where we were offered snacks and drinks at every opportunity by Heath and Sikes. I myself drank two bottles of water. The throat tends to get dry at times like these.)

And thus began possibly the strangest ride of my life.

The van, moving excruciatingly slowly, drove around a perimeter road on the grounds of the prison, followed by a small caravan of similar vans carrying other witnesses to the viewing room. At every intersection, a corrections pickup truck was parked, blocking the roadway for other vehicles. At each of these trucks stood at least one heavily armed guard in black riot garb. There were even a few stationed along the side of the road in various places, all looking very serious and business-like with their helmets and weapons at the ready. At one point, the driver pointed out a couple of deer in the distance in a field to our right.

How odd, I thought. We’re minutes away from watching a man die, and the driver is pointing out the wildlife grazing in an open pasture just a few hundred yards from a death chamber.

Much of the land had been cleared on that side, evidently the outer boundaries of the property. We continued around a long curve, still at a very slow pace until we reached a series of very large, very imposing gates, separated by about 50 feet. At the first gate, five of the armed guards patrolled, again, weapons displayed prominently and eyes darting about for any sign of trouble, it seemed. They parted as the van approached the first gate, and the order was given to roll the gate open.

Once the gate was open, the driver slowly pulled through until an officer who was standing in the center of the driveway, very close to the second gate, motioned for the van to pull closer until it nearly touched his outstretched hand. He gave a signal for the van to halt, then reached down and unlatched the hood, taking a quick look inside. Another guard opened the back door of the van, apparently looking for anything out of the ordinary. When it was determined that nothing was amiss, I heard the words, “let her roll!” bellowed out, and another guard on our right hit a switch that opened the second gate. From there we turned sharply to the right, and maybe 300 feet later, sat at another gate, this one open with one uniformed, but apparently unarmed, guard standing at attention to the right.

But we stopped anyway, the van engine running as we sat quietly. I saw the driver looking in the rear view mirror intently, and turned to look for myself. And at the end of our caravan was a black van with the words Butts County Coroner in gold letters on the side.

I turned back to my right and looked out the window of the van, and saw a mockingbird poised on the high fence just below the razor wire. The bird fluttered aloft, then drifted to the ground just outside the fence. Then it flew back up to the top of the fence before settling there again for a few seconds. It then swooped down to the clay and grass just inside the fence, apparently searching for grubs, worms and insects.

The irony was not lost on me.

But back to the ride.

We were almost there, I thought.

At 8:16, around 10 minutes after we had stopped at the open gate, the driver’s radio crackled to life. He responded with a “10-4,” and we began rolling again, this time past a basketball court and a volleyball court on our left. After we passed the courts, the driver turned left across the prison yard, and toward a small white building. I guessed that would be our destination by the fact that there were two armed guards, again in full riot gear, posted on either side of one of the red doors. They were both standing at attention, feet spread, motionless, and as always, arms displayed accordingly.

I was right. We pulled up to the building, our caravan close behind, and came to a halt maybe 15 feet from the building and 20 feet to the right of the red door. The number 34 was stenciled in white on the door, and Heath confirmed that was where we would witness the execution. After the driver let us out of the van, he asked us to stand where we were. By this point, following those kinds of orders was automatic, so we did so while the other vans unloaded and their occupants walked toward the building. The silence was deafening. There was a short walkway with a handrail on the left going to the door, and suddenly, there were several, guards, officers and suited men lined up to the left of the walkway. With a gesture, we were instructed to walk past them and into the building where Roy Willard Blankenship would die just minutes later.

I’ve seen many movies depicting the viewing of an execution, so naturally, I had a preconceived notion as to what I would see when I walked through that door. But I was wrong. First, the room was much smaller than I had imagined. It held five pews, probably 10 feet long. And the room was well lit with fluorescent lights. I had always envisioned a viewing room as a dark room; I don’t know why. But the one other thing that took me by surprise was the death chamber itself.

The curtain was already drawn when we, the last group to enter, walked in. The chamber was even smaller than the viewing room, perhaps 8 X 15 feet. It, too was well-lit, almost too much so. The walls were white with a curtain covering the rear left corner. To the right was a yellow door. And in the center, taking up much more of the room than I could have ever imagined, was condemned Roy Blankenship, strapped with black bindings to a gurney, with a nurse at his right and Warden Carl Humphrey to his left. Because of the intimate nature of the facility, he was much closer to the viewing room than I had expected.

But there was one more twist I hadn’t anticipated. I’d spent more than a week wondering and worrying about my reaction to meet the eyes of a man who would be passing away by force in mere minutes. I had agonized over the decision to accept this assignment, and wondered how I could actually watch a state-ordered execution.

But when those doubts were put to the test, I discovered they had melted away, much like Blankenship’s life would before my very eyes. I knew I was there for valid reasons; to observe and record, and nothing more. This wasn’t difficult; it was an opportunity to take readers into that white building with me, and continue a conversation that has to be engaged with cool heads and even-handedness. Watching a man die at the hands of our state is a watershed moment, not for me, but for all those who gathered outside the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison to protest the death penalty and for the supporters who claim they’d be proud to inject the drugs themselves.

So with that in mind, I listened to the warden read the state of Georgia’s condemnation of Roy Blankenship. I watched as the state administered a new sedative as the first step in the three-cocktail soup that now constitutes a lethal injection. I watched as he jerked and twinged while that dose of pentobarbital entered his veins, a process that was meant to simply steal his consciousness quietly and without note. It didn’t. He jerked his arms at least twice, and at one point he lifted his head from the gurney and looked down at his right arm, apparently mouthing the word, “Ow.” His head then dropped back onto the gurney and he moved his lips as if mumbling, but soon he relaxed and was still for all eternity. About six minutes into the injection, the nurse, who had been standing by his side during the entire process then donned a pair of rubber gloves, and examined Blankenship’s eyes. This, I had been told, was the “consciousness check” that would allow the release of pancuronium bromide to paralyze him and then potassium chloride to stop his heart. She then entered the yellow door and closed it behind her. Just seconds later she returned to Blankenship’s side as the lethal chemicals began flowing through his motionless body.

I watched as drugs paralyzed his body and stopped his heart. To me, it was a relatively uneventful end to a gruesome story that began 33 years ago. But to some it will be the beginning of a renewed debate on cruel and unusual punishment. The initial sedative should have put the inmate to sleep so the other drugs could work seamlessly, but that didn’t happen Thursday evening. Blankenship was apparently aware of his surroundings at a time when he should not have been, yet his ultimate fate had to be oblivious to him as he finally slipped away.

After two doctors entered the room to check for vital signs, the warden declared Blankenship dead at 8:37 p.m. His death had taken a mere 15 minutes since the first moment the pentobarbital began flowing into his veins. During the entire period, as far as I could tell – and the other media witnesses agreed later – his eyes never closed. The curtain was pulled shut, and the execution had ended.

I was told the media are always the last group in and the first group out at executions, and that was the case. We stood and walked out the door in a line, No. 2 pencils and our legal pads with scribbled notes in hand. Oddly enough, the line of guards and officers was gone, as were the armed guards in riot gear. The show was over.

We got back into our van in silence, and began the trek back to the media staging area at the gate of the prison. But this time, the van moved faster and all the armed guards and trucks that had littered the road just moments before were gone. There was not a trace of them ever having been there. Yes, the show was definitely over.

After we were driven down the incline to the staging area, the driver stopped to let us out and we gathered with the other members of the media in other vans and those who had spent the evening in the staging area talking with protesters or just awaiting an account from the witnesses. We talked among ourselves, making certain we had all seen and heard the same things during the execution; we knew the problem with the pentobarbital would be the real story here after all.

Then we said goodbye, many of us with cell phones on our shoulders as we made calls to editors, family and friends.

Soon, I was on I-75 headed back to Bulloch County. As I drove over the slope of a gentle middle Georgia hill, I glanced into the rear view mirror only to discover a stunning sunset, rippling with pinks and purples exploding into the sky.

And as a 52-year-old journalist with his first, and likely only, view of an execution behind me, I could only wonder what was ahead.

The confused producer

2008-10-26T02:21:00.000-07:00

Saturn V, baby

2008-10-16T00:28:00.000-07:00

Did we really go to the moon?

Why, yes. Yes, we did.

And here's what propelled us into space to get us there.

via videosift.com

Sweet. Just sweet.

This is why I smoke

2008-10-15T01:03:00.000-07:00

Not again....

2008-10-02T20:38:00.000-07:00

What is WRONG with these people?

Sheesh.

That's all I can say.

Congrats, Suzanne!

2008-09-27T17:29:00.000-07:00

This very lovely and talented colleague got hitched today.

Congratulations, Suzanne, and the very best of luck to you and Bryant.

Is it just me...

2008-09-26T22:23:00.000-07:00

...or does this commercial kinda creep anyone else out?

Is the Palin dam starting to leak?

2008-09-26T21:53:00.000-07:00

My good buddy Jim over at straight from left field wrote a post today suggesting that maybe we should just ignore the lady from Alaska.

I disagree, but I see his point. What I find encouraging is that even some of her supporters are beginning to wise up about her preparedness to be a breath away from leadership of the free world, if indeed we are still the leaders of the free world after the past eight years.

Even the shallow, slathering, right-wing conformist Kathryn Lopez is having her doubts. To wit, "I’m not where my friend Kathleen Parker is — wanting her to step aside to spend more time with her family and Alaska — but that’s not a crazy suggestion. She's right to say that something’s gotta change." I know Kathryn Lopez; we publish her column every week at the Herald. Here's what good ole girl Kathy has to say about the Palin backpedaling.

I'm all for freeing Sarah Palin and letting her go back to Alaska where she can preach her fundamentalism and spread Bushisms throughout the frozen tundra.

Oh, geez. I just provided two links to the National Review Online.

Excuse me; I must go wash my hands now.

Just for Jim

2008-09-24T21:01:00.000-07:00

Cats 1, Crocs 0

2008-07-23T22:00:00.000-07:00

So, Leopard and Crocodile walk onto the savanna.

This ensues.

Awesome stuff.

Go, cats, go.

The good and bad from WTOC

2008-07-21T19:11:00.000-07:00

First and foremost, thoughts and prayers to the family of WTOC TV reporter, writer and producer Steven Shoob, who was killed when hit by a car Monday morning while covering a story in Savannah.

I don't think I ever met Steven in person, but I'm familiar with his fine work, as most folks in Southeast Georgia and the Lowcountry are. Those who did know him have described him as a great family man and a focused, driven journalist who sought out stories at every turn and felt a great need to report anything of import to WTOC viewers.

The station did a very moving and appropriate tribute to Shoob on the 6 o'clock news Monday evening, with anchors Jody Chapin and Sonny Dixon struggling to maintain their composure as they introduced the segments.

Which is no surprise. The WTOC news team has always been the epitomy of class, really good solid people who take their jobs seriously and with the proper helping of humility. They did a very nice job of eulogizing Shoob under what had to be the most difficult of circumstances and with very little lead time.

And then the boss stepped in.

At the end of the broadcast, WTOC VP and general manager Bill Cathcart appeared for his editorial segment. And of course, he's going to have some kind words about this employee of 21 years who manned his station diligently through the night hours for decades. The guy who placed himself in harm's way countless times to get a story for Cathcart's station. He's going to offer his condolences to the family, mourn the tragic loss of a "family" member and recognize the contributions that Shoob brought to that station.

Right?

No, he didn't. The segment was, instead, one of his right-wing manifestos, lacking only a foamy froth on his chin and a brown shirt. He railed about the "liberals," the "leftists," the "clowns" in Congress who don't follow his agenda lockstep. He ended the segment with the assertion that any lawmaker who doesn't support President Bush's oil-drilling policy should (paraphrasing until the editorial is posted) seek an alternative to where the nozzle of the gas pump should be shoved.

Har.
De.
Har.

Be sure and watch the video. The outrage. Oh, the outrage.

It was really more of a temper tantrum than anything else, as most of his "editorials" are, while leaving a fallen soldier on the shoulder of I-95, having given 21 years of his life to line the pockets of Mr. Cathcart.

I understand that TV news shows are pre-produced, and Shoob's death was sudden, but come on. I understand that WTOC leans to the conservative side under Cathcart, but I can live with that because the staff has always seemed genuinely honest and managed to turn that to their advantage in the homey, patriotic style they've always adopted. It works for them and always has, in the 30-or-so years I've been watching.

But can you honestly tell me there was no way Cathcart couldn't have given at least an impromptu tribute to Shoob? No, you can't.

Again, I admire the staff of WTOC and always have. Chapin, Dixon, Doug Weathers, Mike Manhatton, Dawn Baker, Pat Prokop, Dawn Baker and many others have elevated that outlet to the top of the media world here for decades.

It's sad to think that the man at the top may bring them down by not recognizing their work.

Especially the work of Steven Shoob.

I'll end this the way Cathcart should have ended Monday evening's newcast.

Thank you, Steven. Your work is greatly appreciated, and the thoughts and prayers of many are with your family and friends.

Cheers to you, Steven Shoob.

Jeers to you, Mr. Cathcart.

A link to Nonsense Central

2008-04-20T17:19:00.000-07:00

Here ya go.

"Shamanic Astronomer," huh?

Right. Right.

Shooting fish in a flying saucer

2008-03-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes there's just no sport in a game.

Take, for instance, this.

I mean, calling out errors in
"Plan Nine From Outer Space"?

Really? D'ya think there might be a blooper or two in what's pretty widely known as the worst film ever watched by the most people?

Vampira was one of the stars, for cryin' out loud. Bela Lugosi, the ghoul of ghouls, actually died while filming this outrageous piece of Americana.

I mean, I know we have such visual artistic treasures as "American Idol," "Big Brother," and that noble bastion of class, that, um, "Truth" show on FOX today. (Find your own links to those, thank you very much.)

So why pick on Plan 9 when there are such lush cherry trees right under our noses?

Ed Wood's bumbling classic was at least an honest attempt at entertainment. Or was it?

We'll never know, and that's the beauty of his work. It ain't contrived, that's for sure, and those who choose to nitpick such works miss the point entirely.

And they obviously don't care for Angora.

PBS rocks

2008-03-13T19:39:00.000-07:00

WFSU TV, the public broadcasting station in Tallahassee, is showing the best of "The Johnny Cash Show" tonight.

And, man is it strange seeing the country music legends as young'uns. I'm not sure exactly when these shows aired (too lazy too look that up tonight), but I'm guessing late '60s/early '70s.

I'll admit, it was a little disconcerting to see young Johnny and thinking, "Dang, he looks just like Joaquin Phoenix!"

Anyway, here's a taste, (volume alert; this puppy's LOUD):

Good stuff.

Thank you, Stacey!

2008-03-02T18:16:00.000-08:00

A link from Stacey.

This is awesome. I suspect I'm late to this party, but I don't care.

My original understanding was that this site led you to covers of bands you like.

It ain't. It points you to genre-specific, bona-fied bands that fit your style.

I'm having a personal Seldom Scene moment tonight.

Dang, this is good stuff.

Thanks, Stacey, and I'll see you in a week or so. I'll email tomorrow about the eateries.

My word, this ROCKS!!

An anniversary

2008-03-01T15:23:00.000-08:00

Today marks one year for me.

Exactly one year removed from this.

And, yes, I remember it as being just that bad.

Look inside your, umm, eye?

2008-02-14T18:15:00.000-08:00

When self-doubt raises its ugly head, always look inside yourself for answers.

Better yet, Photoshop it for deeper self-realization.

Strangely, I feel better now.

You, on the other hand, probably don't.

Sorry.

In Jeopardy

2008-02-11T20:03:00.000-08:00

As if I didn't spend enough playing freerice, now I stumble onto this site, via the Atlanta Thrashers message board.

I may never work again.

But if I ever did make the real Jeopardy, this is about how it would probably go...

Just a little fun...

2008-02-08T18:05:00.000-08:00

Music video I came across. Fairly cool, I think.

Nonsense

2008-01-26T14:15:00.000-08:00

For the life of me, I don't understand why people want to make garbage up with the intent of scaring folks who might not know otherwise.

Such as the current YouTube foolishness about Asteroid 2007 TU24, which will come to within 300,000 miles of the earth in a few days. The asteroid most certainly won't come into contact with the earth; it won't even come as close as the moon's orbit.

It will be a non-event here. Nothing will happen; we won't even know it's there, unless we're looking for it with a telescope.

And yet, there's this, which is the biggest crock of nonsense imaginable. I hate to even participate in the spread of this manure, so I'll ask anyone who watches this fabrication of lies and misinformation to watch the second video, in which a noted astronomer totally debunks this foolishness.

Folks, say hello to some ignorant idiot with access to the Internet...

Did you get that? That we're all going to die in a storm of lightning and fire and brimstone?

OK, here's what a trained scientist in the field of astronomy has to say on the subject.

Dr. Phil Plait, the floor is yours.

Why do we pick on dirty blond mayors dressed in only black underwear?

2008-01-18T20:02:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what to make of this.

Woman poses on fire truck in her dainties. Posts photo on MySpace page, with access to photo only available by invitation to friends.

Later runs for mayor in town of less than 600 in Oregon.

Wins.

Makes controversial decisions about water rates in Arlington, the town where she was elected mayor (obviously.)

Fun stuff begins.

"The recent actions of our elected mayor are an embarrassment to some of the citizens and portray an image we feel is inappropriate for an elected official. Placing provocative photos on the Internet, using an elected title, are unacceptable," reads the statement purportedly presented on behalf of concerned citizens of Arlington at a city council meeting.

To which Mayor Tight-Abs-And-Nice-Body-But-Somewhat-Long-Face replies, "That's my personal life. It has nothing to do with my mayor's position," said Mayor Carmen Kontur-Gronquist.

(It should be noted here that using the phrase "mayor's position" was probably not a wise choice of words in this instance.)

"I'm not going to change who I am. There's a lot of officials that have a personal life, and you have people in this community who have nothing better to do than scrape up stuff like this."

Well, yeah, mayor, but they apparently like to do so very much.

Wha...?

2008-01-16T10:12:00.000-08:00

I have no comment on this.

Journalists in the dark

2008-01-13T17:54:00.000-08:00

The phenomena of dark humor in the news room came up while I was talking to a colleague this week. We were swapping stories about the things said among our peers that might be frowned upon by the general public, because those hapless folks just don't know diddle.

Her best story was one that concerned a hostage situation that occurred just a couple of blocks from the newspaper office she worked in at the time. (For my own unfunny inside glimpse at a too-close hostage situation, go here. But do it later.)

She told me that after a bitter dispute, a guy took his girlfriend hostage in a house, holding a gun to her head. Police surrounded the building, as they're wont to do, and the hostage-taker did release the girlfriend unharmed, but continued to barricade himself in the house.

With the press standing around just outside the police tape, the suspect eventually came out of the house brandishing his weapon, and promptly committed suicide-by-cop. Done deal.

Naturally, there was some discussion in that news room later as to what the best headline might be for that story. And I've gotta go with Leslie's.

With apologies to George Jones and right-thinking people everywhere, her suggestion was this:

"He Stopped Loving Her Today."

At least he wasn't drinking. No, wait...

2008-01-13T17:02:00.000-08:00

One word to describe this: Darwin.

I mean, I know escalators can be slow; I'm just sayin'.

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- A man died after falling several stories in a Hollywood shopping mall while apparently attempting to slide down the banister of an escalator, authorities said.

The Hollywood & Highland complex includes the theater where the Academy Awards ceremony is held.

The victim's friends told officials investigating the Saturday night incident at the Hollywood & Highland Center that the man "had been drinking quite a bit," said Los Angeles police Officer J. Boyer.

Boyer said the man lost his balance and plunged several stories onto the steps of a moving lower-level escalator.

The man was not identified. He was taken to a hospital where he was declared dead from a head injury.

The Hollywood & Highland Center also holds the Kodak Theatre, where the Academy Awards are held.

Fair and Balanced...um, yeah

2008-01-08T20:53:00.000-08:00

Well, it appears Hillary Clinton has won the great state of New Hampshire.

A bit of a surprise, but what's not a surprise is the treatment of the story by "Fair and Balanced" FOXNews.

As always, the right-wing nut jobs' favorite media outlet resorted to the most petty, childish and lowest common denominator; selective use of the hundreds of thousands of photos shot by photojournalists at the heart of the story. It's an old trick, as anyone with any experience in the media knows.

The right light, the right angle, the right attitude, and a professional photographer (and particularly a pool of such) can document enough images to present any reality to the satisfaction of any editor. It ain't that hard; it's just an unethical and incredibly obvious slanted method of news coverage.

Please tell me, with a straight face, that the FOX folks didn't do a little culling to come up with these Clinton photos on the home page of their Web site as the news of her win in N.H. broke. As far as I could tell, these were the first photos FOX posted after Clinton was projected as the winner in this primary.

She's a demon AND a lunatic, FOX seems to whisper into our collective ear.

And that John McCain, perennial GOP also-ran, is an outright statesman tonight.

Yep, thumbs up, Sen. McCain. As long as you're positioned to the right of a Clinton, FOX will be your friend, even if only for a night.

Hey, maybe next they'll call her "Billary!"

Hyuck, Hyuck!!!

Good times at FOXNews.com. Good times.

All done and crispy

2007-09-07T16:08:00.000-07:00

Finally wrapped things up about 3 today. Been an intense two days.

These folks tried to cram so much stuff in our brains, it's unbelievable, but I'm apparently getting some of it, because I actually knew what they were talking about every now and then. But I'll tell you this; I have suffered death by PowerPoint and then went to catch-phrase hell.

Corporate-speak and fancy slide shows are us. But it was pretty informative for me, and the message was clear about our move toward an online presence. But I am TIRED tonight. Had our supper bash last night at a sports bar last night, and was back at it at 7 this a.m. My flight leaves at 7 a.m. tomorrow, so I'll have to get up at 5:30ish to get a cab and make sure I get to the airport with time to spare.

Speaking of which, I am a dumbass. Remember that my toothpaste and shaving cream were confiscated in Tallahassee? Well, after I got here, I discovered that there are NO stores of any kind anywhere near this area of Louisville, just bars and restaurants for blocks and blocks (I know - I walked and walked trying to find one.) So I ended up buying toothpaste and shaving cream at the hotel ($14, for cryin' out loud!), only to later remember that I have to get BACK on a plane, and what the heck am I going to do with that stuff then???

Again, I am a dumbass. If I get up in time in the a.m., I'll get cleaned up and take a stroll hoping to find one of the many, many homeless folks that live in the shadows of all these shiny skyscrapers and give them the toothpaste, at least. I can't imagine they'd have a use for the shaving cream, but who knows? I'll take that with me, just in case.

Maybe they'll need to hijack a plane, and the threat of shaving someone might do the trick.

I'm gonna crash soon, so as to not miss my flight in the a.m.

On airport security and vertigo

2007-09-06T18:53:00.000-07:00

Took a business trip to Louisville, Ky. this week.

And met airport security, up close and personal, for the first time.

I was running late at Tallahassee Airport when I left Wednesday, so of course, I hadn't really checked the fluids, gels and aerosols in my shaving bag. Bottom line; I lost my shaving cream, moisturizing lotion and toothpaste to George Bush and Homeland Security.

Funny thing was the toothpaste. The security folks were working the line, telling us what we could and couldn't take on board and what we could put in a Ziplock bag. Anything over 3.4 ounces couldn't be taken on board. Wouldn't you know it; my toothpaste tube, which was nearly empty, was a 3.5 ounce size. Bye bye, toothpaste.

What, I was gonna break into the pilot's cabin and threaten to brush somebody's dang teeth? Sheesh....

And then, terrorist I am, I set off the security alarm. The security people asked me to check my pockets again, and sure enough, I had stuck my Preperation-H gel with the aluminum lining in my pocket in my haste to get packed up. So I had to go back and put that into one of the little bowls to go through the x-ray machine again, much to the amusement of those waiting in line behind me.

Then I set the alarm off again when I tried to go through. I was promptly pulled aside in a serious way (not rough or violent; just firmly and decidedly.) As soon as I was "under suspicion," I realized that I had also stuck my open pack of cigarettes in my sock like I do sometime and that little bit of foil was the problem. The security people agreed that that will do it every time, and I thought I was out of the woods.

Nuh-uh. Big security dude with blue rubber gloves on said, "Yeah, that's probably what it was, but when you set it off twice, I've gotta search you. It's the law." So I got the wand treatment, a rubber glove massage, and of course, my belt buckle set the wand off.

Off with the belt.

Then my butt apparently set it off.

"Must be the rivets in the jeans," said the big security dude, and let that go. But when he did my frontal below-the-belt area, the dang thing went off again. So I had to undo my pants. At this point, I was ready to drop 'em, and started to, but the guy said, "NO, no, that's OK, you're OK. Get your stuff (belt, wallet, checkbook, shoes from his area) and go ahead." So then I had to go get the rest of my stuff, my carry-ons including a small bag of clothing and my laptop.....and my Preparation-H, which reminded one of the older security guys of every hemorrhoid joke he'd ever heard.

So I gathered all my stuff and took off toward the gate, trying to drag my belt on the whole time. Sure enough, I went to the wrong gate, and the guy at the right gate heard me say I was going to Louisville, and yelled, "If you're going to Louisville, you'd better get over here. There's a plane full of people waiting for you, and you're about to miss your flight!"

I was the last to board, but the good thing about that was that there was a front row seat open and since the crew was beyond ready to go, the flight attendant told me to just take that seat, which does give me a lot more legroom. But I was sweating like a pig from running from security to the gate, and sat there heaving and perspiring while the stew did her safety mime thing. But bless her heart, during all of her demonstrations of how we were all to prepare to die in the event of an emergency, she reached back into her little cabinet thing and handed me a paper towel twice, which I'm sure the guy sitting next to me appreciated. I know I did.

Anyhoo, fairly uneventful flights. Pretty bumpy at times in the heat, but not bad. I have, however, decided that Louisville has short runways, because both times I've landed here, the pilot has STOOD on the brakes after touching down. I can still taste the seat that was in front of me.

Now, the cab ride to the hotel from the airport is another story. THAT scared me. That driver was insane on the interstate. We almost, I swear this is true, almost ran into a L'ville cop during a swift, unadvised lane change. Whole lot of swerving going on. Scared me much worse than sitting 30,000 feet above the ground with a little sheet metal beneath me.

And what a marvelous hotel this is. It's right on Fourth Street, where you can visit the Hard Rock Cafe, unlimited Starbucks and every other fashionable, erudite restaurant and bar while watching homeless folks digging through the trash cans on the street. Kinda strange, in my limited experience.

But I have a small problem with this grand, wonderful hotel in downtown Louisville, right across from the Muhammed Ali building and a huge Borders bookstore.

Don't get me wrong, this hotel is great; it's just not suited for people who have an aversion to heights. You know, like, ummmm, ME.

Funny thing; they forgot to put a middle in this building. It's hotel rooms wrapped around nothingness. Every time I walk out the door of this room, I have five feet of solid footing, a rail, and then 16 stories of "if I step too close to that rail, I might trip awkwardly, defy the laws of the physically normal, and fall to a quick, nasty, elegant death on some of the most beautiful carpet I've ever seen 16 floors below."

Meetings are going well, but they throw SO MUCH stuff at you at these things. But I discovered today that I've apparently learned a lot because I actually understood some of what they're talking about. This is the first time I've met with all the managers from around the country, and I really like these people. All real down-to-earth.

Had a meal at a huge sports bar restaurant thing tonight with everybody. Pretty fun, and free food and drink is never a bad thing.

More later.

Mash Island

2007-08-30T14:34:00.001-07:00

View Larger Map

If you zoom out, you'll see it's a pretty remote place.

Down in "The Hole"

2007-03-22T16:47:00.000-07:00

All photos by Leslie Roberts © All rights reserved

When News Editor Leslie Roberts came to me with an idea about a story on substance abuse in Gretna, Fla., a small town just down the road from Quincy, I was intrigued.

Because one of the first things I was told when I moved here last year was this: "Never go through Gretna at night. And don't even think about stopping there."

Suffice it to say, Gretna has a bit of a reputation among its neighboring towns. It's an extremely poor community, and as with all economically deprived municipalities, it has its share of ne'er-do-wells. Of course there are some very good people there too, and when they intersect, well, that's what prompted Leslie to action.

Seems some of the good folks there are reaching out to their lowly addicted brothers and sisters in an attempt to help clean up the town. And, being a champion of the downtrodden, Leslie saw an opportunity for an interesting piece that would combine news, feature and public service. A good idea, I thought.

What I didn't think was so good was her idea to go visit 'the Hole.'

The Hole, she explained to me, was a gathering spot in a wooded area back behind a convenience store. And the folks who gathered there were there for a reason; to party. And not in a birthday sense.

And she wanted to interview a few users, so for the sake of balance, she figured that would be a good place to do it.

I didn't say it aloud, but I wondered about an attractive woman of her stature wandering among the dregs of society in the woods, trying to get an interview with a possibly crazed crackhead.

But I was genuinely curious, and that dove-tailed with my concern for her safety, so I offered to drive her there.

So we climbed into my truck and headed for the Hole.

Fifteen minutes later, we were cruising the mean streets of Gretna in search of America's most wanted, so to speak.

At least it was broad daylight.

It took a trip through town, a turnaround, and a right turn to find the Hole. It was indeed situated behind a convenience store, perhaps 200 yards from that establishment, with just enough trees and underbrush to keep it indistinct, if not invisible from the highway.

Not knowing the etiquette of parking at such a quaint and littered site, I pulled off the road, only hoping to keep the parked truck out of range of possible photo ops.

Then Leslie and I took a brief hike, straight into the Hole.

It wasn't much to look at, but then again, it was. Newly placed poles halted access to what appeared to be a driveway, apparently in a recent attempt to halt the traffic to The Hole. There was a bright red "No Trespassing" sign attached to the most central barrier; I looked at Leslie and we agreed that those words mean "Come On In" in journalese.

So we went on in. The dilapidated green house in the distance appeared a bit depressed; windows broken, screens torn, litter scattered about. The ground we covered to get there was a mess. Despite the best efforts of a bulldozer, debris dotted the landscape in the small lot the house was now centered on.

And a bulldozer had been at work there. That was what drew Leslie to this story. The Gretna city commission had heard from the owner of the property just days before our visit, and had been promised that the area was cleaned up, and The Hole was a haven for the despondent no more.

Well, maybe not. As we walked toward that house of broken dreams, we noticed people moving around inside the dilapidated house through a window. My apprehension bristled a bit, wondering exactly what I'd signed up for here, but Leslie pushed on toward the house.

It was about this time, I believe, that we noticed the chickens. One white chicken, calmly clucking and twitching just in the woodline. The other chicken was just calm; it was deader than a doornail, and propped up in the fork of a small tree, just a foot or so above the ground.

Strange, I thought. We didn't even talk about that until later, but it was, well, strange. And bad voodoo was mentioned later; it does exist here.

At about this time, the occupants of the house strolled out through the porch. It was a man and a woman, the man with obvious romantic intentions in mind. He had an arm draped over the tiny woman's shoulder as they approached us.

Leslie began talking to him, and I quickly realized he was about as far from dangerous as could be. His lady, who he referred to as "Boo," wandered away and stood at the edge of the woods, where she remained the whole time we were there. He wanted to talk; "Boo" obviously didn't.

Leslie asked him questions about the Hole, and he was quite forthright in his appraisal of the situation. He was, as it turned out, a wealth of information.

In fact, he even gave us a grand tour of the house at the Hole. And what a place it was.

We walked through the small porch with the ripped screen right into what could only be described as the main room. I'd call it the living room, but nothing living would spend any amount of time there. There were holes in the floor, and in the center of the room, an incredibly nasty stained mattress rested on the floor. That was it for furnishings in the main room; that was the decor.

The rest of the house was no better. The most interesting room was the one with the filthy playing cards scattered around the floor, and the beer bottles in the corner. Heiniken: Whou'da thunk it?

The rest of the rooms were in similar disrepair, with telltale signs of the activities that had taken place there. The house, which was as littered as the ground surrounding it, told a story, and it wasn't difficult to imagine what had taken place there over the past few years. The other mattress in one of the smaller rooms was testament to that thought, as disturbing as it was.

Anyway, we got the tour, and our host couldn't have been more gracious. He swore he worked at a convenience store just down the street, but in the end, we were a little skeptical of that claim.

He did tell us that "business" went on inside the house, and the fighting occurred outside. He told us of the "potential" he thought the place had, and that if Leslie or I would buy the place, he'd come to work for us and fix the place up. We were rich, he said. He could tell.

"I can cook," he said. What, we asked?

"Anything."

And he had a vision for the area.

"Real potential here." Maybe bring in a pool table. "Yeah," I agreed. "A pool table. That'll bring 'em in."

As we walked toward the road and the relative safety of my truck, Leslie mentioned that names haven't been exchanged, so I gave him my card. He looked at my card at about the same time Leslie asked him his name.

"Eddie," he says, which happens to be my name, as he looked at my business card.

"Eddie Shepard. But everybody round here calls me Shep," he said. (I thought he said 'Chef' because of his claim to be a cook, but Leslie's probably right; it must have been Shep, short for Shepard ("duh," my daughter would've said a few years ago).

Then he took great delight in my last name. It took him a few seconds to get it right, but he had a lot of fun trying. I couldn't help but laugh.

Shep, out there in the woods of Gretna, didn't exactly seem to be a lost soul, but he was there that day, and we're grateful for that.

We got a personal tour of the Hole without any sense of threat, and Leslie got a unique angle on her story.

As we walked away, Boo emerged from her hiding place in the edge of the woods, and they resumed the business we'd interrupted.

We drove back to the office and resumed our business too.

Just another day in the Hole.

Read Leslie Roberts' actual article in The Gadsden County Times here.

Back through Hell

2007-03-04T15:56:00.000-08:00

Having been on this planet for nearly half-a-century, it's not often I can honestly say I've had an experience that was the "worst" or "best" of my life.

However, this past week, I attended an orientation in Shelbyville KY as part of the acquisition of our newspaper by Landmark Community Newspapers Incorporated. I made the 11-hour drive there after finding that last-minute roundtrip airfare from Tallahassee to Louisville would cost an astounding $1,100.

After calculating the cost of flying against climbing into my truck at 6 a.m. and taking to the road, the latter won out. And the drive up was very nice. Yeah, it was a long way, but the hills and mountains of Northern Alabama, Tennessee and Kentucky are beautiful to me, even this time of the year when things aren't so green.

The meetings were great; informative, if a little intimidating. (I never knew how little I actually know.) The people were great; both my colleagues from other papers and the execs at Landmark all seemed to be very intelligent, professional people, and I was glad I made the trip and believe I brought a lot of good information with me as I made my way back to Florida.

Back to Florida. That's where the "worst" part comes in. If you haven't guessed, I drove through the heart of Alabama, all the way through the state from north to south on Thursday, the day of the deadly tornadoes.

Right smack dab through the middle of it. And since I've been home, I've told anyone who will listen (some several times; sorry, Leslie) just how terrifying the trip through that weather really was.

So for posterity's sake (and the public airing of what a coward I am), here's the story.

I woke up Thursday morning ready for the final few hours of meetings. The schedule was to begin at 8:30 and wrap up around noon, with lunch to follow after which I would make my way back to Florida, stopping and getting a room if the trip was too much for me. (Remember that part, because it becomes important later.)

As I was getting dressed, I had The Weather Channel on the tube because I knew there was a possibility of nasty storms in my path. As I stepped into the shower, I heard a snippet that sounded something like "the worst weather in Alabama since 1989."

Well, that's not good, I thought, but I've driven through bad weather before, and I'm still here to talk about it. So I went into my meetings, occasionally running upstairs to check the radar on the receptionist's computer. When we finally finished up, I had to decide whether to get on the road immediately or have the "goodbye" lunch with my newfound friends and colleagues. I chose to stay for the lunch, thinking it probably wouldn't make any difference and that the longer I stayed, the more energy the storm system would expend, paving the way for a less turbulent drive.

I was wrong. I was so wrong.

I left Shelbyville just before 1 p.m. in a light rain with slightly threatening skies. As I drove up the ramp onto I-65, the wind picked up a little and the rain went from light to moderate, and that was it for many miles. Rain, on and off, breezy and various cloud cover throughout Kentucky. I stopped for gas near the Tennessee line, and noticed that the wind had turned considerably colder.

A good thing, I thought. That means the cold front has passed through, and the remaining nine hours or so wouldn't be so bad.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

When I got back on the road, a voice on the radio informed me of the tragedy in Enterprise, Ala., where ultimately eight students were killed when a twister struck the school. While this was certainly sad news, it reinforced my thoughts that the storms had blown through and the worst was over.

And that seemed to be the case as I drove through Tennessee toward Nashville. That is, until I actually got to Nashville. Just as I was entering the northern suburbs, the sky suddenly (and I mean suddenly) blackened and my apprehension returned. I mean, it was ugly.

So I pulled off the Interstate, thinking shelter might be necessary in the near future. But as I drove around the secondary roads looking for shelter, absolutely nothing happened. The skies remained ominous and dark, but I eventually thought the best course of action was to get as much of this trip behind me as soon as possible. So I got back onto I-65.

Where the bottom promptly dropped out of the skies. It poured on me as I drove through downtown Nashville, but it was only rain. A lot of it, but no real wind or anything else, just heavy rain. I somehow made it through Nashville with limited vision and without getting lost even once, and as the shiny skyscrapers receded into my rear view mirror, the rain let up and the skies began to look a little less threatening. For the third time I thought, "Well, that was probably the worst of it."

And it was, for a while. As I crossed the Tennessee-Alabama border, the reports on the radio were beginning to sink in as I realized just how serious and tragic this day had been, and would be, for the Southeast. Most of the FM stations went to live coverage of the incomprehensible damage and human suffering that was unfolding as I drove along in relatively calm conditions through Northern Alabama.

I made it to the Huntsville area around 5 p.m. (I think it was), and I thought I should call my parents on the cell phone to let them know I was OK and had avoided the brunt of the storms. I also wanted a weather report, just in case....

My dad answered, and the first thing I asked him was if things were quieting down now in Alabama. Nope, he said. There were still some warnings and watches about, according to The Weather Channel. Well, there always are on the trailing edge of a front, I thought, but they rarely amount to anything more than jarring the nerves of folks who are already on edge.

So I pressed onward toward Birmingham, wondering if I should get a room somewhere. I was feeling a bit tired, but not exhausted, and the relief of avoiding the worst of that dark day was a bit uplifting, so I was considering the idea of just driving on through to Quincy.

But about an hour north of Birmingham, things took a turn for the worse. The radio station I'd been monitoring for information suddenly reported a tornado warning for the area. And almost at the same time, the skies began to look, well, very strange. The cloud cover, which had been alternately light and threatening, lowered and developed the oddest undulations from horizon to horizon. And when the head of the Alabama National Weather Service called in to announce that no one should leave Birmingham to travel southward, I realized that I was getting really tired of all this.
"Stop in Birmingham and get a room," the pragmatic side of my brain reasoned.

"Get home. The sooner the better," the idiot side of my brain insisted.

As usual, the idiot side won, and I approached Birmingham with the idea that things weren't as bad as they seemed, and if worst came to worst, I could pull up in Montgomery for the night and have only a few hours left to drive home Friday morning.

So I made it to Birmingham after one stop to scan the skies shortly after the entire countryside and sky turned yellow. That nasty, surreal yellow that's usually associated with, well, tornadoes. But I did make it into the city with little problem, despite the insistence on the radio that something very bad was happening somewhere in the area.

As I drove out of Birmingham in moderate rain, I thought for the umpteenth time that smooth sailing was ahead, and I'd be snug in my bed in Quincy shortly after midnight.

I really thought that. I really did.

Montgomery was next, as darkness took full hold. I'd not yet been in any really gut-wrenching weather, despite the chaos that surrounded me on all sides. But about 75 miles north of Montgomery, I began to see lightning on the hilly horizon, and as I counted off the mile markers, it became more and more vivid. There was just a light rain falling at the time, sometimes becoming heavy enough to make me turn the windshield wipers to full speed, but not much more. But that lightning became more and more daunting as I drew nearer.

It was bold, bright and frighteningly frequent as I approached Montgomery, but I was in the safety of my truck, so despite my awe, I didn't fell particularly worried.

Until it just stopped. Just as I drove into what I figured was the area directly underneath the thunderhead that had been throwing broad bolts of electricity in every direction, it just ceased. And down came the rain again.

An absolute deluge about 25-30 miles north of Montgomery. I found myself driving at 50 mph, then 40 mph, then 25 mph as the sheets of rain swept over the landscape. And of course, the wind became a factor, rocking my truck to and fro across the lanes of I-65. But no more lightning just yet.

The rain began to taper off as I approached the outskirts of Montgomery, and I thought that would be a good time to take an exit, grab a few snacks and do the other things you have to do on such a long drive. The rain was just heavy enough to wet me down from the parking lot to the station and the wind was still blowing, but not nearly as cold as it had been earlier. I guess that should have been my first clue that this night would get even more interesting.

Back in the truck and back on I-65. As I drove into Montgomery, the lightning show returned, with a renewed sense of purpose, and the wind picked up again. I remember crossing a long bridge just as I entered Montgomery, and having the thought that there was a real possibility that I could be swept off that bridge. It probably wasn't that bad, but it was beginning to feel that way. I was definitely, I mean definitely, gonna get a room in Montgomery.

But a funny and unusual thing happened. I drove into that city, navigated the Interstate and exits, and found myself on 231 South, the very highway that would bring me to what was now my determined destiny, Quincy, Florida. I'm fully convinced that on any other day, I would've taken a wrong turn, gotten confused while taking an even more wrong turn, and ended up throwing up my hands and pulling in at some fleabag hotel to sleep my frustrations away.

But not that night. I had found the way home, and once again, I was convinced my trail was clear and uncluttered. I had weathered the storm and was just a few hours from safe harbor. (Keep the term "harbor" in mind. Water has an even more poigniant place in this narrative later.)

So why would I stop and get a comfy motel room when my instincts told me this storm was over for the fourth or fifth time?

I really, really hate my instincts.

But I did find 231 South and merrily left Montgomery, Alabama, and its storms and Holiday Inn Expresses behind me at about 9:30. Of course it wasn't long before I saw the familiar flashes of blue in the sky in the distance directly in front of me. And by this time I knew what that meant, and I was getting pretty weary of the results.

And sure enough, I drove into another pocket of Hell, greeted by a healthy gust of wind, followed by driving rain and a fireworks show that was becoming all too familiar. And this time, I wasn't on an Interstate with other travelers blowing by me at breakneck speeds; I was on a lonely rural road, waiting for the first weak oak tree to end my misery, or that incredibly potent lightning to somehow find a way into my truck, grab me by the heart, and scramble my electrical circuits all over South Alabama.

But my cell phone interrupted those cheery thoughts, and, of course, it was my mother.

"Just been waiting to hear from you," she said. "Where are you?"

"Just south of Montgomery, mom" I replied, trying to hold my cell phone with my teeth as I wrestled with the steering wheel of a Ford F150 that was the only thing between me and much water, lightning and the possibility of death by fear.

"It looks like that's the worst place to be right now," she said from Georgia, undoubtedly glued to The Weather Channel.

"I know, ma," I said. "I'm kinda there as we speak."

"Well, you should have gotten a motel room in Montgomery," she said. My mother is a wise woman, but hindsight wasn't what I needed at that moment.

"I'm OK," I said, and not believing a word of it. "I'll be home in a couple of hours and I'll call you tomorrow."

After more false assurances, I hung up and concentrated on the task at hand; maneuvering through the Hell that was south Alabama in the dark of night.

And that was the first time it truly crossed my mind: I could die tonight. I mean no disrespect to those who did lose their lives that day or to their families, but I really feared for my life at that point, and it only got worse.

As I was mulling that happy prospect, the cell phone rang again. I answered, thinking I was gonna have to give mom a good talking to about the intracacies of driving through Armageddon while chattering on a cell phone when I realized it was a dear friend from Georgia who knew I was on the road, and had some concerns about my safety.

She, too, gave me a weather report. "Looks pretty bad where you are," she said.

"It is," I assured her. "The only thing I could think of that would be worse than driving through this would have to be talking on a cell phone while driving through this," I said.

Well, I didn't really say that; I was touched that she would think of me, but things were rather hairy at the time. I could very well have said that, but I didn't, and I really appreciate her concern. Your mother has to love you; your friends don't.

Thanks, Kathy. It meant a lot to me.

Anyway, things began to calm down again as I drove through Troy, eying the motels there with a sense of forbidden lust. "I'd love to stay with you, but I've got a date with a more familiar brick-and-mortar structure," I said as I watched the neon signs grow smaller in the mirror.

By the time I hit Dothan, everything was good. I think I even saw a star punch through the cloud cover for a second or two, but somewhere along there, I saw a sign that pointed to Enterprise, where all those families and friends were dealing with their loss even as I drove through the area. It was another sobering thought on a very sobering day.

Duly subdued, I drove on down 231. I was sort of lost, but not really, because I knew driving south would eventually lead me to I-10, which at this point, was my lifeline. If I could make it to I-10, I would just get in the eastbound lane, and I would end up at an exit that would have a big green sign with reflective white letters spelling out the word "Quincy." This awful day would be done, and I'd be in my bed, my world intact, unlike those in folks in Enterprise and, as I learned later, other devastated places in Alabama, Florida and Georgia.

As I drove down 231, I finally began to really relax. This had been a long, eventful drive and much was weighing on my mind, not the least of which was how fortunate I was to have driven through such carnage without so much as a scratch.

And then, without any warning, everything turned white again, and the truck began rocking, rolling and sliding around the highway .... again. A squall line smacked me broadside, and I realized I wasn't out of the woods just yet. Again, the rain pelted down in sheets, the wind roared all around me, and by this time, I was just done with it. I was just sick of it.

Quite frankly, I was tired of being scared. My nerves were shot, my shoulders and arms ached from the upright stress one feels battling the winds, my eyes were tired from squinting through the rains, and I was just at the end of my rope. I was just tired of being afraid for my life.

In the midst of all this, I somehow noticed a highway sign pointing to a shortcut to Mariana, the very Mariana where I would connect with I-10, the way to what's now my home. I bolted to the left, crossing the median where I probably shouldn't have, but I did. On that back road to Mariana, oak branches were scattered on the road and were coming down all around me as I drove along that two-lane road.

As I dodged those branches on the ground and the ones falling from above, I felt a sense of desperation and despair. In all honesty, I planned to stop at the first convenience store I came to in Mariana, park my truck there, and sit and cry.

Sorry, that was the thinking at the time. It was a tough day. It was really that bad.

But I didn't do that. I pressed onward, still thinking that the idea of home would trump the obstacles. Having discovered that crying wouldn't really help me in any way, shape or form, I didn't stop in Mariana, but found the quickest outlet to I-10 possible.

And thanks to the blue signs, I found myself on the paradise of I-10 posthaste.

Ah, I-10. Just a short 40-minute drive away from all the Hell that was Alabama to the Heaven that was my apartment. But...

I-10 had its own Hell to offer. Shortly after I gained purchase on that Interstate, all Hell really broke loose. I only thought I'd seen fire and rain that day; the rain came down in waves in a literal sense and the lightning was ferocious. For 30 minutes, I saw lightning form and explode right in front of my eyes as the wind battered and tossed my truck around the road. I've never, ever experienced anything like it, and I hope I never do again.

We're an exclusive club, that line of autos, headlights straining through the pouring rain, that drove down I-10 near the Quincy exit at 1 a.m. Friday morning. I was hoping that someone besides myself would pull off at that exit so we could compare notes. But the ones that did went south rather than north, which my destination compelled me to take, as that's where I live now.

It was the worst weather I've ever driven through, and thanks for listening, Leslie, and thanks for the call, Kathy.

Fashion nonsense ...

2007-01-28T21:42:00.000-08:00

I love this woman, and I have for a decade now. I don't think her sense of fashion drew me to her, but who knows? I know she's kind, loves animals, especially cats, and makes lousy money working with disabled adult humans when she's not writing great songs.

And she did my laundry this weekend. I think she's just dreamy. Please click on the picture for a better view.

No, that's not my laundry she's wearing. I have no leopard print outerwear. And those socks, well, they're pretty ugly, but they're tasty.

And if she sees this post, well, at least I've got a five-hour head start to escape her wrath.

I'm glad no one comes here anymore ....

2007-01-15T20:18:00.000-08:00

.. because I actually agree with Sean Hannity on something, and I'd really like to keep that quiet.

Here's Sean and a lovely, compassionate lady whose family I'm familiar with.

I'm only gonna say this once, so listen closely: Rock on, Sean! (And Alan Colmes. FOXNEWS finally got something right. While I don't agree with the idea of media personnel shouting down a guest, I'm compelled to say that I probably would have done the same in this case.)

OK, a few details ...

2006-11-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

Thanks for the comments. (Logan, send me an email: I can't find your email address.)

I'll be leaving the Herald on November 23, and will take over as general manager, then publisher, of the Gadsden County Times, a weekly paper in Quincy, Fla.

The owner contacted me (Quincy is 20 minutes from Bainbridge, where I worked in the mid-90's before returning to the Herald), and we started talking. I went down for a visit on my way to Joey's, and after talking to him and his business partner for a while, I realized this could be a great opportunity for me personally.

So they offered me the job, and I accepted (after turning it down once; I knew I'd done the wrong thing as soon as I did it.)

It's gonna be a challenge, but I'm up for it, I do believe.

Again, thanks for the comments, and I'll be around for a couple more weeks. I'll probably keep this blog going, so check in from time to time. I might have some interesting stuff to post as I try to find my way around a new job in a new city in a new state.

Man, this is gonna be fun. I hope.

Heading south ... for good

2006-11-02T04:11:00.000-08:00

For anyone who might come across this lonely corner in the wasteland of cyberspace, I have an announcement to make.

I've resigned from the Herald to take a job in - where else? - Florida.

More later, if anyone asks.

Friday the 13th?

2006-10-14T20:58:00.000-07:00

I originally posted this on my work blog here, but thought I'd share this strange story here too.

No mirrors broken, no black cats and no ladders in sight, but it was apparently Friday the 13th on, well, Friday.

Not long after I got home Friday night, I checked my messages on my phone. I had one new message, and the caller ID read "Frankston, TX." Now, I don't think I know anyone in Texas, much less Frankston, but like everyone, I do get the stray call from a telemarketer or an occasional wrong number, so I thought, "No big deal, let's listen to it."

I punched in my password info and got this message, delivered in a decidedly male, southern voice: "Yeah, Eddie, this is Earl at the motel. Give me a call when you get this message," followed by the phone number already displayed on my caller ID.

OK, so far I'm batting zero. I don't think I know anyone in Frankston, Texas; I'm sure I don't know an "Earl" in Frankston; and the motel angle - well, this was getting intriguing.

What I did know was my name is Eddie, and it was time to put this mystery to rest, so I called the number on the caller ID.

A woman answered the phone, and I explained that I had received a call from that number from a man named Earl, that I was Eddie, and that I was returning his call, although I had no idea what the call might be about.

"So, who is Earl?" I asked.

"He's my husband," she answered.

"And why was he calling me?" I asked.

"And this is Eddie?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am," I replied.

At this point, I was totally perplexed. Why was I having a phone conversation with Earl's wife in Frankston, Texas, who I had realized by now, didn't know me either?

She then said, "Hang on just a minute; let me find the paperwork."

Paperwork? PAPERWORK? Why would Earl and his wife in Frankston, Texas, have anything to do with any paperwork concerning me? The alarm bells were just beginning to quietly pierce the usual calm that inhabits my vacuous mind.

And then things became a little clearer. But just a little.

She asked, "Are you the Eddie that's been staying here for the past two weeks?"

"Um, staying where?"

"At the motel," she answered.

Now those alarm bells were in full pitch and I was getting a little edgy. I was beginning to wonder if somebody was trying to scam me, or worse, if someone had stolen my identity and spent a glorious two weeks in Frankston, Texas, at my expense.

"Ma'am," I said, "I'm in Georgia. I live in Southeast Georgia and I haven't been to Texas in 25 years. So please tell me what this is about."

"OK, let me look. Well, I'm still looking for the paperwork. I can't find the paperwork...," she said.

Ah, the paperwork again.

Much shuffling of paper in the background. She apparently was looking for the paperwork. After perhaps 30 seconds of paperwork shuffling, she then asked, "Are you Eddie Landrum?" spelling out the last name for me in the process.

"No, ma'am," I said. "My name is Eddie Ledbetter, and I'm the managing editor of a newspaper, the Statesboro Herald in Statesboro, Georgia. I think you might be speaking to the wrong person here."

"You're in Georgia?" she asked, in what I can only describe as an incredulous tone.

"Yes, ma'am, and you're in Texas, right? Because that's what my caller ID says."

"Yeah, we're in Texas, all right," she replied.

I still had no idea what was going on, but at this point I was going to find out. I was pretty certain there was no scam involved, but I wasn't sure that somebody wasn't galavanting around Texas using my phone number and identity for some nefarious purpose.

And then I thought to ask the question I should've asked from the beginning: "Ma'am, what phone number did this person leave you?"

She then read to me a phone number that was mine up until she got to the final four numbers. The third-from-last digit was wrong, but the area code and prefix indeed led to the Register, Ga. exchange. So I asked her to repeat the number and, sure enough, it was mine, with the exception of the one digit.

After she understood that I wasn't the party she and Earl were looking for, she told me why they wanted that particular "Eddie" to call them.

As I'd begun to suspect, it turned out that he had skipped out on his motel bill, owing a large sum of money to Earl and his wife. And "Eddie" apparently left them a fake phone number that was remarkably similar to mine.

So it would seem that what actually happened was that Earl misdialed the phony phone number when he was trying to call "Eddie," and by remote chance, he got this Eddie, leaving me the mysterious message that started all this.

After we got all that straightened out, Earl's wife apologized to me profusely, and said that Earl's call to me was "100 percent accident."

From the tone of Earl's voice on the message, and his wife's casual conversation with me, I'd guess that they knew the other "Eddie," and might've been trying to help him out a little, and he betrayed their trust.

Of course, that's a lot to deduce from a voice-mail from Earl, and a conversation with his wife that consisted mostly of her struggling to shuffle through paperwork.

It was just an odd coincidence, and a strange thing to have happen on Friday the 13th.

And since I have Earl's number on my caller ID list, I just may call them back again in a couple of days, just to see how the case of the other "Eddie" turned out.

Road trip!

2006-10-07T00:24:00.000-07:00

Ah, Florida beckons, and I'm hearing the call.

I won't have Christie Brinkley and Beverly D'Angelo draped around my legs (not even the 1983 versions of 'em) but I'm taking a few days off for the inevitable trip to the Sunshine State (formerly known as "Hurricane Hell".)

I'll be heading south in a week-and-a-half for a two-day secret mission at an undisclosed location in North Florida, to be followed by a few days in Zephyrhills, - which translated, means "Hills of Zephyr" - where I hope to just chill and revel in the company of my favorite woman.

Right now, we have tentative plans to visit Big Cat Rescue while I'm there, and I hope to spend the rest of the time in her beautiful back yard on the patio in a lounge chair reading, chatting, and just downright relaxing.

Life can be harsh at times.

While I'm there, I think I might try to make one of her dreams come true. It's kind of an, um, Clark Griswold sort of deal.

As Forrest Gump said, "and that's all I have to say about that."

So wish me luck, and as Lindsey Buckingham wrote:

I found out long ago;
It's a long way down the holiday road;
Holiday road, Holiday road;
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick;
Take a ride on the West Coast kick;
Holiday road, Holiday road, Holiday road, Holiday road;
I found out long ago;
It's a long way down the holiday road;
Holiday road, Holiday road, Holiday road, Holiday road.

Vacation, baby. Vacation.

More blog, but no more bling

2006-09-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, I feel Luke's pain.

Today, the boss approached me and "asked" me if I was going to contribute a blog to our soon-to-be vastly new-and-improved Web site at our newspaper.

I said no, I didn't think so, because blogging about my job would be a bore, as I basically am at the point where I do the same thing most every day without a lot of variety or excitement.

He said, no, I wouldn't be blogging about work, just anything that strikes me. You know, what I do ... um... here.

I told him I didn't know but I'd think about it.

Then came the three magic words that means I will be blogging on the Herald's web site.

"Aw, come on!" he said to me. So I'll be blogging there, I suppose.

I don't share Luke's fears about saying something that'll get me fired. I've been at my job long enough to know where the boundaries lie (for example, the word "bandwidth" is strictly off-limits right now, and the phrase "I'm not volunteering" should never, ever appear in any work-related correspondence.)

I'm afraid I'll just be proving how boring and uninspired my life is on two blogs instead of one.

What fun.

Regardless, I'll be hanging onto this little corner of cyberspace for my intermittent ramblings when the mood strikes.

Because you just never know what's around the corner, now do you?

Right, Luke?

Erk's big secret

2006-09-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

The following is a column I wrote that was published in the Statesboro Herald on May 4, 1995 after interviewing legendary Georgia Southern football icon Erk Russell. Less than a week after Erk's death, I've decided to post the original column in its entirety here as a lame but sincere tribute to the one and only original Bald Eagle.

From the Statesboro Herald, May 4, 1995:

Last Friday night, some names and faces from the past resurfaced at Paulson Stadium for the "Eagle Bowl," an oldtimers flag football game for the gridiron stars who built GSU into a 1-AA national powerhouse in less than half a decade. Most all of the big names were there.

Tracy Ham, Raymond Gross, Monte Sharpe, Joe Ross, Nay Young, and around 50 other ex-Eagles took the field for charity, the Eagle Bowl being a Statesboro Exchange-sponsored fundraiser aimed at helping the prevention of child abuse in the area.

The old bald-headed guy was there too. I was a little disappointed that he didn't go into the game at defensive line to try and slow Clint Harper down a little, but he did give me an interview before the game.

I've been a GSU fan for many years and I've outcoached Erk from the grass more times than he's lied about what GATA really stands for. Get After Them Aggressively, he says. Yeah, coach, right.

But coach Russell did allow me a little insight into his strange and hairless mystique.

Russell spent a decade as the center of attention in Bulloch County. He relaxes a little these days and stays out of the limelight, as much as any walking, talking legend possibly can. But he'll always be the No. 1 icon of GSU football, and deservedly so.

And he still has that indefinable, curious charisma that's always put people around him at ease, and he's always been accessible, despite the heavy workload he shouldered when he drove down I-16 from that other school up in Athens. He forgot to bring a football with him, but men who've banged their head against brick walls can't be expected to remember everything. (I'll bet he thought we'd forgotten about that.)

So we chatted a while about the early years of Georgia Southern football, and how some of the players still look like pretty good athletes. He talked about the good things that had to fall together before GSU's meteoric rise to the top of 1-AA football could have occurred. The coach still insists he was just one small cog in the machinery that became the GSU juggernaut. Russell is certain he just happened to be standing there with his arms folded when this great football program fell into place around him. And I believe that as much as I do that GATA stuff.

I was there, and I saw Eagle football rally around him, and saw what a man who understands motivation can do with the barest of essentials. I told him that I'd been there with my daughter and our tailgate crew, sitting in the stands and on the grass, watching the miracle unfold before our very eyes.

And he took that stogie out of his mouth, looked at me, and said in the most sincere and wonder-filled voice, "Wasn't that a lot of fun?"

It was fun. It was pure, undiluted fun watching the Eagles learn to run before they crawled. It was loads of fun being the new kid on the block and flattening all the traditional 1-AA powers like so much roadkill on Highway 301. I knew it was fun, and had known it all along.

But it had never occurred to me that the old Bald Eagle himself was having fun right along with the rest of us. He was supposed to be working, not having fun. And maybe, therein lies one of the real secrets of Russell's phenomenal success at Georgia Southern.

Maybe he was having fun. And as anyone who's had the privilege of chewing the fat with him knows, his sense of humor and perspective are as infectious as the gnats that call Beautiful Eagle Creek home.

Over the past few years, I haven't been as true blue as I once was, and neither have many of those who rode the early wave of prosperity at Paulson Stadium. I'll have to get to work on that. I've been assured by a power that knows every blade of grass at Paulson by name that the coming football season at GSU will be worth watching.

And for every other fan who's wavered in their support over the past few seasons, may a bald-headed, squat apparition appear at the foot of your bed on some dark and stormy night, look you square in the mug, and whisper one thing for your advisement:

"GATA."

Sweet dreams.

May God rest your soul, coach, and I'll miss exchanging pleasantries with you at the Country Store.

You are sorely and deeply missed by many. GATA, coach, wherever you are. GATA.

10 years of Herald bliss ... revealed!!!!

2006-08-31T02:16:00.000-07:00

If I make it there, March of 2007 will mark 10 years of my second term of employment at the Herald. So as I wait for the inevitable budget cuts that threaten that run of, umm, excellence, I offer my Top 10 over-the-top events that I've witnessed, or been a part of during my tenure.

(Details available upon request.)

10. Dying guy walks into the office ....

9. Worst CD ever. EVER.

8. Dude shot in the head two blocks down the road. I decide to be the hero and end up huddled behind a small newspaper donation box as the perp drives by. I, obviously, survive the ordeal.

7. New photographer quits after 4 hours on the job. Statesboro can be overwhelming, what with all the idiots hiding behind newspaper donation boxes as felons drive by.

6. Lightning strikes. I'm stuck for four MORE hours - on the job.

5. Nancygate.

4. Christmas present offered in big, loud box, and The Big Boss was in Florida. Coincidence? I think not.

3. Possibly the funniest thing I've ever heard said in an executive editor's office.

2. Hostage crisis! Pipe bombs involved! Police, GBI, downtown cordoned off! Wait, let me wipe the saliva from my chin ....

1. Lawyer calls me at home to protest treatment of his client in a malpractice story. Unfortunately, he caught me trying to get ready for an aunt's funeral; I was running late, and the conversation slipped downhill quickly. Much talk about two people trading threats about placing a foot into body orifices.

Note - Possible future No.1: Tall reporter runs through the building strafing cubicle walls with an AK-47, screaming "No more Friday Night @#$@*& Lights for me!!" just before being subdued by a giant bunny.

Troy Gentry is a coward

2006-08-22T21:42:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm surprised I hadn't already heard something about this, but I'm glad Joey told me about it tonight.

After all, I needed someone else to despise besides shallow journalists, Hollywood bimbos and radio talk show hosts.

So Troy Gentry, country music star, step forward, you freakin' disgusting coward.

Here's the story.

Gentry bought a tame bear so he could shoot it with a bow and arrow in its cage and then had a video edited to make himself look like a real man killing a wild bear in the field.

There are so many things wrong this idiotic act I don't even know where to begin.

But I'll try.

This man has some serious manhood issues. Shooting a caged animal is bad enough; then trotting out an edited video making himself appear to be what he seems to think is a big bad hunter is just pathetic. This man is truly a coward, and the sad thing is, he apparently knows it.

Can you say "overcompensation?"

I swear to God, we often put the wrong creatures in cages, but here's a chance to right a wrong. If this story is true, and there are no indications it isn't, I hope he draws a judge who's a lifelong, card-carrying member of PETA, the Sierra Club and Greenpeace. I mean, I want this piece of scum behind bars for a long, long time for this despicable act.

And while he's behind bars, I hope he gets his just rewards. I don't think they let cellmates wield bows and arrows, so exact justice may not be served, but I'm sure his fellow inmates might do a little hunting of a caged animal with their own weapons.

Hybrid mutant update

2006-08-17T22:32:00.000-07:00

The verdict seems in on the HYBRID MUTANT FOUND DEAD!

Apparently,it was a dead dog, although the woman who took the photos still insists it was no dog.

Well, yeah, it was. It was probably a feral Akita-mix of some kind.

At least the Associated Press seems to have dropped the story from the news cycle shortly after the original story appeared on the wire.

But in this case, never would have been better than late.

Enough of this foolishness. If you want to see some really impressive, live animals that have been positively identified without question, look here.

Hybrid mutant! Found dead!!!

2006-08-16T22:35:00.000-07:00

Here's the lead paragraph from a news story released Wednesday night:

"Residents are wondering if an animal found dead over the weekend may be the mysterious creature that has mauled dogs, frightened residents and been the subject of local legend for half a generation."

I'm all atwitter over this "news."

The article, which made it to the Associated Press wire service via the Lewiston Sun-Journal in Maine, is apparently actually considered news in some parts.

Here's another photo of the "hybrid mutant." Photo by Michelle O'Donnell © All rights reserved.

(Warning, this is a graphic photo of a dead animal. My apologies if it offends, but it makes my point.)

Creatures such as this one have been seen before.

In the real news business, we call them "dogs."

In all fairness to the Sun-Journal, the original headline on the web site reads "Mysterious beast," not "Hybrid mutant found dead," the headline assigned to the story by Yahoo News.

But it's still a dead dog, and nothing more.

Slow news day in Maine, I guess.

Big cats, baby!

2006-08-14T20:54:00.000-07:00

"You are visiting the website of one of the world’s largest sanctuaries for wild cats. We provide a permanent retirement home for approximately 150 lions, tigers, leopards, cougars, servals, caracals, sand cats, etc., representing 16 of the 35 species of exotic cat. Nowhere else can so many species of exotic cat be found in one place. You can learn about all of the species on these pages."

That's the opening text on the web pages for Big Cat Rescue, a facility in Central Florida that takes in big cats that need a home for a variety of reasons. You can read more about it on the site.

Well, my FF (Florida friend) got the opportunity to tour the facility Monday, and took some incredible photos of these magnificent creatures, and emailed them to me tonight.

And I just had to share.

So here are a few of them.

All photos by Joey Errigo © All rights reserved

All photos by Joey Errigo © All rights reserved

Tired of seeing green

2006-08-12T22:26:00.000-07:00

If anybody ever tells you moving a blog to a new location is a simple matter, just nod your head and back away slowly and quietly.

Because they're nuts.

I'm working on importing this one to a new host because, well, I'm tired of looking at the current template, and since I'm pretty much the only one who reads it, what I think really counts.

But I'm struggling to cross the i's and dot the t's, and getting the "widget" thingies to find their place in the whatsit deal on the side whatchamacallit.

And as I do it, I ask this simple question:

Image courtesy of a serious trekkie.

"This just in..."

2006-08-12T03:14:00.000-07:00

In celebrity news, the Associated Press offers this informative piece:

Pet Kinkajou Takes Bite of Paris

By SOLVEJ SCHOU
Associated Press Writer

LOS ANGELES - Paris Hilton got no love this week from her pet kinkajou Baby Luv - in fact, the raccoon-like animal bit her.

The heiress was not badly hurt but did visit a hospital emergency room to receive a tetanus shot, her publicist, Elliot Mintz, told The Associated Press on Friday.

Hilton was frolicking with her exotic pet early Tuesday morning "the way some people play with their cats and dogs" when the animal became excited, Mintz said.

"Baby luv bit her. It's a superficial bite on her left arm," he said.

Hilton, concerned that she was bleeding, called Mintz at 3 a.m., and he took her to the hospital.

"She was seen by a doctor, who treated the wound, gave her a tetanus shot, cleaned the wound and applied something to it," Mintz said.

The 25-year-old "Simple Life" star and her publicist left the hospital around 5:30 a.m.

Mintz said Hilton's arm did not appear to be swollen the next day. She also felt well enough to continue promotions for her debut album, "Paris," set for release Aug. 22.
Hilton's breathy single "Stars Are Blind" has already jumped up Billboard's dance music charts.

"Yesterday she did two photo shoots and two magazine covers," Mintz said. "She's OK, she's fine. Anyone in this situation would do well to have the wound looked at."

Baby Luv was checked out by a veterinarian on Wednesday.

"I don't view kinkajous as aggressive animals. The same kind of thing could have occurred with a German Shepherd," Mintz said.

End of informative article.

So my question is, who exactly got the tetanus shot here?

Poor kinkajou. They say that skank taste is kinda hard to get rid of.

And this probably won't be the last time we hear Paris Hilton associated with the phrase, "The same kind of thing could have occurred with a German Shepherd."

Geraldo-do

2006-08-10T22:45:00.000-07:00

Geraldo Rivera recently appeared on Bill O'Reilly's show on FOX News (wow, did I really type that?)

As you might expect, a few quotes that reach real "pearls of wisdom" status resulted.

Such as this from "Poppa Bear" O'Reilly on the media's treatment of Mel Gibson's arrest:

O'REILLY: "But it goes further than that. They mean nothing. They're smear merchants, and they always get theirs. But there's a powerful corporation behind them. And it's a corporation that allows its airways, paid for by all of us, to be abused."

This is Bill O'Reilly. Of FOX News. Whining about media that he claims aren't objective, and abuse their powers for their own agenda. And profits.

Let me repeat; this is FOX News airing this interview.

And more: "These corporate masters that have allowed our society to degenerate into a society that rejoices when this stuff happens and makes money from it, these are the truly evil people."

If you just sprayed your drink onto your computer, send O'Reilly and FOX the repair bill.

And not to be outdone in the "totally outrageous, hypocritical, self-aggrandizing, arrogant" statement category, Geraldo closed the interview with this:

RIVERA: "You know, Comedy Central is now a big hit, Stewart and the Colbert guy."

O'REILLY: "Yeah, they do OK. They do OK."

RIVERA: "They make a living putting on video of old ladies slipping on ice and people laughing. That's their life. That's their life. They exist in a small little place where they count for nothing. The history will be made by those who have affirmative thoughts, who make, you know, innovative suggestions in life and are inclusive."

Did I just hear the pot commenting on the color of the freakin' kettle? Sheesh.

You know, O'Reilly's just a puffed-up, egotistical right-wing nut job (I know, I know; that was redundant), but Geraldo is even worse.

The fact that FOX hired this guy, despite his history of brazen sensationalism and an ego larger than his nose, just puts this whole interview into perspective. The fact that he's even still in the public eye is an indictment of the gullibility of the American public.

I'm really not sure how intelligent we are today, but it seems pretty clear that nothing more than television and media exposure have become a substitute for real substance when it comes to "journalism."

Gotta run. I hear Al Capone's secret vault is still untouched, and I've got a co-worker to sexually harrass.

These guys, these guys.

Quotes from mediamatters.org

D'oh!!!

2006-08-08T23:58:00.000-07:00

Sigh.

It never fails. Everytime I get that warm and fuzzy "really good night at work" feeling, something creeps into my head and bugs me and bugs and bugs me until ... DAMMIT!!!

After balancing deadline and late-night election results all by my lonesome, I got that false sense of security Tuesday night. I managed to get both the demise of Cynthia McKinney, and the defeat of Joe Lieberman into our print edition, and just a tad past deadline.

Well, actually it was a full hour past deadline, truth be told, but I was proud that our little daily would have resolution of the two most high-profile elections in our readers' hands Wednesday morning.

The McKinney story was our lead, so I was definitely going to wait as long as possible for those results, and caught a break when that race was surprisingly lopsided and a winner was called earlier than predicted. And as an added bonus - I thought at the time - the Associated Press moved a news alert about Lieberman's defeat just as I was tidying up the McKinney article.

So I decided to use the "Lieberman loses" piece to fill the hole left on the jump page, thinking a write-thru would be coming soon.

Well it wasn't coming soon, but it eventually showed up, so against deadline pressure, I quickly wrote a headline, dropped the story in, edited it to fit, and passed the final pages on to prepress for output.

After resolving some technical issues with our distiller program, used to pdf files for output, I was merrily on my way home, thinking, "Well, that was a pretty good night's work."

Then I got home, took off my shoes, sat back and relaxed.

Until that Lieberman headline flashed through my head one last time, causing me to bolt straight up, and say (and I quote), "Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!!!"

For some unknown reason, it occurred to me that my headline read that Lieberman had lost in PENNSYLVANIA!!!

DAMMIT, DAMMIT, DAMMIT! Lieberman lost his Senate seat in freakin' Connecticut, and I knew that!

DAMMIT! I have no idea why I typed Pa., but I expect a good talking-to Wednesday. My only saving grace is that it was a small headline on an inside page, so the impact shouldn't be all that great. At least it's not the end of the world (or my job, I hope), but I hate making stupid factual mistakes like that, because I'm really hard on other writers and editors when they make such careless errors.

DAMMIT!

Sometimes I think my job hates me.

Sigh.

Argus rocks

2006-08-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

This is from the brilliant Argus Hamilton today:

"British Petroleum shut down the Prudhoe Bay oil field in Alaska Sunday after finding a small oil spill near the pipeline. They caught it early. They were alerted to the spill when a helicopter pilot noticed a herd of SUVs licking at the snow."

You gotta love this guy.

He's still trippin'

2006-08-01T21:37:00.000-07:00

Warning: The following is a rant, pure and simple. I'm not normally a mean-spirited person and usually find name-calling and negative hyperbole tiresome, useless and juvenile. But there are times ...

When I got to work Tuesday afternoon, I did my usual check of the Associated Press wire service to see what's going on in the world, and what direction tomorrow's edition might take. One of the first stories that caught my attention was one that was slugged "Mideast Photos," so I opened the story to check it out.

Five minutes later, if any of my co-workers had been looking, they would have seen steam shooting from my ears and God forbid had there been any mind-readers around.

Without further ado, here's the story. Read it, then please come back for my rant.

OK, let's get this straight. A blog, whose author obviously knows nothing about how news photographs are cycled and released, questions the time stamp on photos from the Middle East.

The implication seems to be that three, count 'em, THREE, major news services conspired to influence public opinion on the dire situation on the Middle East.

That's baloney. That's conspiracy theory at its ugliest and an inexcusable assault on the character of those photographers that are trying to do a very important job in what may be the most dangerous place on earth right now.

And I can't say with certainty, but I think it likely that the author or authors of this blog were sitting in a nice, air-conditioned environment while these photographers were risking their lives among the carnage in Lebanon.

And then Rush Limbaugh steps in. (Caution: Rant directly ahead.)

This arrogant, pill-popping, caricature of a buffoon does what he does best; he opens his flopping jowls, and spouts his ill-informed and inane "opinion" from the cozy comfort of his broadcasting studio.

"These photographers are obviously willing to participate in propaganda," Limbaugh said. "They know exactly what's being done, all these photos, bringing the bodies out of the rubble, posing them for the cameras, it's all staged. Every bit of it is staged and the still photographers know it."

Well, it must be true because Rush said it, right? I could find no sources, no background, no basis for this silly-ass proclamation from the bastion of right-wing nut jobs.

And the sad thing is, the lemmings who call themselves "Ditto-heads," (I guess his fans still do that; I haven't listened to his drivel for many years) believe this nonsense, just because it came from his lips.

Which brings me to this point. People who listen to Rush Limbaugh and worship his twisted diatribes are fools of the highest order. Some of them can't help it because they're just too weak or lazy to form their own opinions through real research and/or dialogue with people who don't agree with them.

Then there are those who are simply mean-spirited minions who play the "liberal media" conspiracy card because it gives them a false sense of power and self-righteousness.

For all their bluster and indignation about the mainstream media, all they manage is talk, talk and more talk.

Just like their hero. They can't address their accusations by becoming a part of the solution - such as taking a low-paying job to fight for what they perceive as the truth - because they're not willing, nor even capable of doing so. And they know it.

So don't ever expect to see any of Limbaugh's flock huddled with a camera in a war zone, trying to record history as missiles rain from the sky around them. But continue to expect to hear the Limbaugh-ites bleat and blather, and hurl criticism and conspiracy theories at the people who do have the courage to answer such a calling.

If Rush Limbaugh wants to closely monitor the motives and actions of those photographers to give credence to his statement, then let's give the man a camera and send him into the field in Southern Lebanon.

And let him stay there. The only people who'd miss him are his sheep, and even they would eventually wander around the pasture doughy-eyed until another shepherd arrived and placed the crook of his staff around their neck.

Maybe, just maybe, there'll be a photographer around to chronicle the event.

Georgia on my mynd

2006-06-22T20:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I haven't posted anything in a while, but sometimes something just drops into your lap that you just have to share.

With someone. Anyone.

As you may or may not know, the state of Georgia recently passed a controversial voter identification law. The law changes the means of proof of identity at the polls when Georgians go to vote. Before the change, a Social Security card, a birth certificate or even a utility payment stub was good enough to prove you were who you said you were when you went to vote.

The law, in essence, reduced the forms of ID you could produce at the polls from 17 to six. And the state promised to provide photo ID cards to those who had no driver's license, couldn't find their birth certificate, etc. The current status of the plan is up in the air right now, because the cards are still unavailable less than a month before the primary election.

But that's not the point of this post.

When the legislation was passed,our fearless leaders in the state Capitol did what they always do. They announced the new legislation with great fanfare, and distributed a photograph of a hand holding a card that represented an example of the new photo ID to the Associated Press for release to the public.

Every time we've run an update on this seemingly never-ending story, we've always used that file photo of the ID card as art to go with the story.

But tonight, during the process of running the latest story on this issue (and the file photo once again) in our paper, one of our editors noticed something.

It would appear the negative stereotypes about our state may be grounded in at least a small dose of reality.

We Georgians, it would seem, can't spell.

Here's the original AP photo:

If you don't see it, here's a hint:

And the capitol of Georgia is apparently:

And just in case you think we can't really spell "identification" then just look at - ah, crap!

And as if that's not enough, as Jake pointed out, the name on the card is probably spelled wrong. After I got home tonight, I Googled "Barry Abbott Fleming," (with two t's as opposed to one on the card) and came up with an attorney who practices in Augusta, Ga. I would assume this is the guy who allowed his name to be used because one of the bill's sponsors, Sue Burmeister, represents Augusta. So on the card, they apparently didn't even get the guy's name right.

The really sad thing is that our pompous and arrogant Republican state legislators came under fire for this bill because many feared it would disenfranchise the poor and elderly, who have no driver's license and may not have access to other documents that were formerly accepted as proof of identity.

And possibly the less-educated potential voters. Think about that.

We got a lot of laughs over this when Kathy discovered it at work tonight, but I guess that was only so we wouldn't cry.

Once again, Georgia has shown her face, and once again she appears wrinkled, toothless, and covered in red clay.

But I, for one, will stand up for us. I'll say it with pride and dignity.

I'm prowd to be from the grate state of Georgia.

I reely am.

Four-legged courage

2006-05-21T22:24:00.000-07:00

I'm not a big horse person, but I've had a special relationship with a woman who is for the past decade.

I also have many family members who work with and live and breathe horses, and I work with a woman who loves horses more than most anything in life.

So while I'm not a "horse person" per se, I do understand the passion that horse lovers feel, and I've been around horses enough to believe they're special animals with far more intelligence than most of us humans give them credit for. I do believe horses feel, think, and even dream on a level that we can't begin to understand.

And I do thoroughly enjoy watching the Triple Crown races every year, because watching the best of those massive, graceful animals galloping at full tilt is just an awe-inspiring sight. Watching those races also gives me the opportunity to reconnect by phone with someone who I only get to see a couple of times a year these days (the aforementioned "special relationship" woman.)

The breakdown of Kentucky Derby winner and favorite Barbaro at The Preakness Saturday was heartbreaking to watch, whether you care about the equine culture or not. Watching that majestic creature pull up just a hundred yards into the second jewel of the Triple Crown, right rear leg flailing at sickeningly unnatural angles, just ruined the race for everyone.

This colt had a shot at winning the Triple Crown, most experts believed, before jockey Edgar Prado gently guided him to a slow but awkward halt after hearing "a noise" just as the race was reaching pace.

It's a shame that Bernardini, the winner of the race, has been reduced to a footnote in the history of horse racing. I mean, winning The Preakness ain't exactly small potatoes. But that's the way it is; tragedy will always trump warm and fuzzy.

At the office tonight, I was constantly checking for updates on Barbaro as he was in surgery, with a team of veterinarians trying desperately to mend his shattered leg just enough to at least let him live. His promising racing career was most definitely snuffed out the second those bones shattered with that one misstep, and his life was threatened in that same instant.

At this hour, it appears the surgery went well, meaning that a minor miracle has already occurred. The horse is not out of the woods by any means, because much lesser similar injuries have often caused complications that later resulted in euthanasia.

I won't go into the details of Barbaro's injuries; that's readily available to anyone who cares. But here's a good summation: "You do not see this severe injury frequently because the fact is most horses that suffer this typically are put down on the race track," said Dr. Dean Richardson, the chief of surgery for the University of Pennsylvania's New Bolton Center for Large Animals before the operation. "This is rare."

And after I got home tonight, I continued to check the AP wire for updates, and found an Associated Press photo of an x-ray taken post-surgery.

I could not believe what those vets had done for that horse, and I was astonished that the horse was already on four legs (in a cast, of course,) eating and behaving for all the world as though nothing was amiss.

"Character" and "courage" are words crafted and spoken by humans, but I can't help applying them to a horse in this case.

No, I'm not a horse lover, or even a "horse person," but I do hope to one day see a photo of this horse in a hilly green pasture moving freely about, perhaps dreaming of what might what have been.

But dreaming, nonetheless.

All photos property of The Associated Press. All rights reserved.

A day of reckoning (I reckon)

2006-05-14T23:42:00.000-07:00

Having experienced exactly 47 birthdays (not including the original event), I'm pretty familiar with the concept.

And when Stacey proposed the following exercise, I felt more than compelled to share the results of my own Wikipedia research.

So here are the events, births, and deaths associated with my own personal day of emergence, October 17, accompanied by comments attributed to my own clever wit.

Events:

1604 - Kepler's Star: German astronomer Johannes Kepler observes that an exceptionally bright star had suddenly appeared in the constellation. Ophiuchus, which turned out to be the last supernova to have been observed in our own galaxy, the Milky Way.

Comment: I like this one. Screams superstar to me.

1888 - Thomas Edison files a patent for the Optical Phonograph (the first movie).

Comment: Well, that's just cool. Seems to jibe with the superstar thing.

1917 - First British bombing of Germany in World War I.

Comment: I never liked Nazis much anyway, but with our current political situation, I may soon become one, through no choice of my own. Stupid voters!

1937 - Huey, Dewey and Louie, Donald Duck's three almost identical nephews, first appear in a newspaper comic strip.

Comment: This may be the most relevant thing you'll see in this post.

1979 - Mother Teresa awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.

Comment: This may be the most irrelevant thing you'll see in this post.

1992 - The United Nations General Assembly declares October 17 as the International Day for the Eradication of Poverty, to be observed beginning in 1993.

Comment: No, wait, this may be the most relevant thing you'll see in this post.

2004 - Boston Red Sox win Game 4 of the 2004 American League Championship Series in what would become one of the greatest comebacks in sports history. They would not lose another game.

Comment: A whole team of superstars. I like where this is going.

And now to the births.

1912 - Pope John Paul I (d. 1978)

Comment: Sharing a birthday with a pope is pretty special, right? Oh, wait, I'm not Catholic. Oy vey. Oh, wait, I'm not Jewish, either.

1918 - Rita Hayworth, American actress (d. 1987).

Comment: Rita Hayworth was one fine-looking woman, and if she were alive today, I'd ... well, I'd be lusting after an 88-year-old woman. Yeah, that sounds about right.

1921 - Tom Poston, American actor and comedian.

Comment: If you don't know who Tom Poston is, then you don't know who Bob Newhart is, and you should be in bed by now.

1938 - Evel Knievel, American daredevil.

Comment: Just call me Eddie Kneddy. Or else.

1940 - Peter Stringfellow, British nightclub owner.

Comment: I don't know who this is, but, geez, what a name. I have nothing more to add.

1948 - George Wendt, American actor.

Comment: NORM!!!!!

1950 - Howard Rollins, American actor (d. 1996)

Comment: I DO know who this is, and I have nothing more to add.

1958 - Alan Jackson, American singer and songwriter.

Comment: OK, I know who this is too, and the fact that he was born on the very same day of the same year I entered this world is proof that babies DO get switched at birth. That's my hat, dammit, and I want my guitar back too, Alan.

1963 - Norm MacDonald, Canadian comedian and actor.

Comment: Can I have a do-over on the Howard Rollins thing, please?

1968 - Ziggy Marley, Jamaican musician.

Comment: No comment.

1972 - Eminem, American rapper.

Comment: No, please. No.

1974 - John Rocker, baseball player.

Comment: Oh, no, please, please, no, NO!

OK, on to the deaths that occurred on the date of my own coming-out party. This list is pretty weak. Apparently, famous people don't dare to die on my birthday, and I kinda like it that way.

532 - Pope Boniface II.

Comment: Pope John Paul I was BORN on my birth date, which makes him much more desirable for this list. Pope Boniface II, you're, um, dead to me. (Rita Hayworth, you're not.)

1849 - Frederic Chopin, Polish-French musician and composer (b. 1810)

Comment: Alan Jackson, are you reading this? We may share the same day of birth, but Chopin died on our birthday, and since I'm the first to note this, now you HAVE to give me my hat and guitar back. Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee, indeed.

1958 - Charlie Townsend, English cricketer (b. 1876)

Comment: Don't know who this is either, but he had the courtesy to die on my birthday and be born exactly 100 years before my graduation from high school. So he can't be too bad a guy. Or cricketer.

1967 - Henry Pu Yi, last Emperor of China (b. 1906)

Comment: I just like that name, Henry Pu Yi. And the fact that a guy named Henry was an Emperor of China.

2004 - Uzi Hitman, Israeli singer (b. 1952)

Comment: UZI HITMAN! Are you kidding me? UZI HITMAN was an Israeli singer? Gotta post the Wikipedia entry here, just for verification.

And just for good measure, there is at least one observance held every October 17th, Black Poetry Day. Since Wikipedia has no links to this special day, I Googled it and found that it is, indeed, a day of note.

So that's what happened in history on my special day. Maybe one day, folks will be finding my name on Wikipedia when researching their own birthday.

Not likely, I know, but if John Rocker makes it in, then surely I have a chance. Surely.

Picking nits squared

2006-05-05T18:44:00.000-07:00

The next time someone calls you "anal" or "nit-picky," send them here.

This guy (or gal) is absolutely unbelievable.

This better be good

2006-05-05T13:00:00.000-07:00

OK, Scott.

We're waiting.

And if you want to accuse me of taking things too literally, I plead guilty.

Reptiles aloft

2006-05-02T21:08:00.000-07:00

Better late than never, I guess.

I just recently found out about the Snakes on a Plane mania, and being a connoisseur of bad movies (yes, I have Plan 9 From Outer Space and Ed Wood in my DVD collection), I just had to contribute something.

It's a quick and dirty Photoshop job, but it serves the purpose and two of the images in the photoillustration are my own; the snake was in my back yard and the shot from the plane was during a very memorable flight from Atlanta to Statesboro in a corporate jet. Can you say "turbulence?"

And besides, if it didn't look a little ragged and unprofessional, it wouldn't be true to the subject, now would it?

So here's my weak contribution, and thanks to the lovely Joey for her guidance.

An unconventional blogger convention

2006-04-23T21:40:00.000-07:00

Click on photo for larger image

Months ago, when Scott told me the lovely and talented Alison was going to make the long trip from Denver down here to southeast Georgia, I told him to make sure I had a chance to meet her.

Well, as I do with most things these days, I promptly forgot, so when he called me at work Saturday to say she was here and they were going to drop by to see me, I was relieved that SOMEONE has a brain cell left with which to remember things.

So he and Alison, accompanied by Derek and the light of Scott's life, Jessica, stopped by the office today so we could all meet and say hello.

I figured a photo was in order, so here it is. The tall goofy looking guy who looks for all the world like he's avoiding contact with "those people" (I wasn't, I just tend to look that way) is me, and in descending order, heightwise, is Derek, Alison, Scott, and Jessica standing in front of my workplace, the Statesboro Herald. (Thanks to Rahn Hutcheson for taking the picture for us.)

It wasn't exactly the G8 summit; it was better. If only Luke, Stacey and Jake could have been there.

Alison and Derek, it was nice to meet you, and Scott and Jessica, it was great to see you again.

Next time, we're all stayin' at Alison's place.

Bullwinkle arrested for DUI

2006-04-03T21:08:00.000-07:00

Well, Alison asked so I'm delivering.

Leave your best caption for this pictue as a comment. I'll choose a winner and that lucky soul will win one-quarter of my Blogger Madness winnings.

(I only have half left after giving Alison half for setting up the pool.)

The very second I post this, I'll be imagining Scott sitting up in bed and saying, "Did somebody just call my name?"

Madness times 2

2006-03-27T20:00:00.000-08:00

Through sheer luck and faith in the strength of the Southeastern Conference, I have somehow positioned myself to have a chance to win both NCAA tourney pools I entered this year. The two brackets were slightly different (I generally pick brackets quickly and on hunches, so my intuition apparently varied as I filled out each bracket.)

Unfortunately, the one common opponent I have in both pools, co-worker and current mortal enemy Luke, also has a chance to win both, so things are really tense around the office this week. (Well, not really; Luke may be the most laid-back person I know besides myself.)

So just for posterity's sake, here are my scenarios: If LSU beats UCLA, I win the office pool, regardless. UCLA is Luke's last hope there, and if Florida beats George Mason, I win the Blooger Madness pool so graciously set up by the lovely Alison.

Um, er .....

2006-03-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

I've been sitting here for 15 minutes trying to think of some kind of comment for this, but I'm just coming up with a blank.

Just glad I wasn't the driver, and even more glad I wasn't the moose.

March Sadness

2006-03-18T20:07:00.000-08:00

Well, just three nights into the NCAA Tournament, and my bracket's not busted yet.

But it's bent at a painfully dangerous angle.

I would be in a much better position if Illinois and Tennessee hadn't gagged on their leads in the last few minutes of their games today.

Which brings me to the point: Why do most coaches and players not know how to finish games these days? Tennessee had that game wrapped up and then made every wrong decision a team could possibly make in the last couple of minutes. I keep hearing what a basketball genius Bruce Pearl is; well, he didn't convince me of that today.

The same can be said for Bruce Weber, the Illinois coach who took a highly talented team to an 11-point second-half lead over Washington before losing by three.

That's wy I picked Duke to win it all; at least I know they have a coach who knows how to manage a lead.

And Coach K now has nine straight trips to the Sweet 16 to prove it.

I've just discovered how much I hate the color orange.

Gotta run now. My bracket's killin' me.

This post brought to you by Sour Grapes.

Just a picture

2006-03-12T22:20:00.000-08:00

My posting passion has apparently sunk to an all-time low, but I really felt the need to share this picture of my great-niece Madeline "playing" my best (read 'most expensive') banjo.

And, yeah, she plays it better than I ever have.

Finally: Something worth blogging about

2006-01-20T21:56:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted anything in a while because, well, there's been nothing happening.

Until last week, when our sleepy little hamlet in Southeast Georgia suddenly merited the attention of every national media outlet imaginable. So just for the sake of relating what turned out to be a crazy two days, I'm gonna tell my side of this story.

Monday morning at around 9:15 a.m., an ex-client of an attorney with a office in Statesboro took the attorney hostage, holding him in his office with a handgun and explosives. The ex-client had a grievance with the lawyer and wanted to draw attention to to what he perceived as a lack of "justice" in a case many years old. He even brought his wife along to help with the hostage-taking.

The situation literally shut our downtown area down for more than 24 hours before the alleged kidnappers surrendered peacefully. In the end, no was was harmed, and life in the Boro is now back to normal.

So here's the story from my perspective as managing editor of a newspaper whose office is but a block away from "ground zero" in what our newspaper headlined as "Boro standoff" (in 170 point type.)

I first learned of this situation Monday morning at around 11 a.m., nearly two hours after it began. No, I wasn't called in to work - I normally come in in the afternoon to actually build the paper and put it to bed - because our more than capable staff had everything under control.

I learned of the situation via a phone call from my father, who was near the area and wanted to warn me that downtown Statesboro was impassable when I did go in to work. He also told me that my mother hadn't wanted him to call me because she knew I'd be "right there in the middle of it" as soon as I found out about it. I said "Of course not; there's a guy with bombs involved. I don't want any part of that."

About 30 minutes later, I was right in the middle of it, if you consider standing behind a police barricade more than a block away in the middle of anything. I was in the middle of a throng of journalists and rubberneckers creating and disputing rumor after rumor.

Our entire working staff was already there, so we talked about how to cover the story and tried to piece together the scant information that Holli, our police and crimes reporter, was hearing on her portable scanner. In short there wasn't a lot happening other than the occasional press conference, the last of which I attended at 4 p.m. before heading back to the office.

Now I mentioned that this event occurred just a block from our workplace; what I didn't mention is that with the police line parameters extending all the way around the downtown area, it was a fairly good distance to traverse on foot. And by the time I got to within about 200 yards of the office, my cell phone rang.

It was The Boss, my executive editor, calling to tell me that I needed to go back and give Holli my cell phone because the Fox News Channel wanted to do an on-scene interview with her at 10 p.m. She was to appear (or, more accurately, be heard) live on Greta Von Sustern's show that night. So I turned around and headed back to the scene, noticing that there were more and more people gathering behind the police line to watch the drama unfold.

So after handing off my phone to Holli, I headed back to the office, this time with reporter Luke alongside me. (Luke was first on the scene when the news broke that morning, and he'd be the first to tell you that. Right, Luke?)

We got back to the office and I began to go about my usual chore of putting the paper together. It was a little tough to sit at my desk and do the mundane things we have to do every day knowing there was a story just brimming with tension literally within earshot. I guess I'm now an editor by trade, but still a reporter at heart. We did get that paper together. We took a quick break to watch Jake's appearance on Wolf Blitzer's "The Situation Room" on CNN, then Holli and Luke wrote their stories and Jake and Michelle brought in an incredible array of photos from the scene. (I also took a few photos; the ones you're seeing here are mine.)

Eventually, Luke and Holli went home to catch a brief bit of shuteye while the kids with the cameras camped out in a restaurant as close to the scene as possible to get shots if anything broke during the night or early morning hours.

The boss and I put the paper to bed at about 1 a.m. with no resolution to the situation in sight. Before leaving for home, I walked back downtown to take one more look at the scene.

It was surreal to see the intersections I cross multiple times every day quiet and shrouded in police tape. There were law enforcement vehicles of every type parked on the streets basking in an eerie glow of quiet. It was, to say the least, a strange sight for someone whose familiarity with that town spans more than 25 years.

So then I went home at 1:30 a.m.

I knew I should get some sleep because who knew when this thing was going to end? I had fully expected it to be resolved sometime Monday, but I was wrong. I was also wrong about getting some sleep.

I stayed up long enough to record Holli's interview on FOX, which was shown as a repeat at 3 a.m. Then I watched both the national networks and the Savannah stations for a while, just to make sure nothing seemed pending, and I could catch a few winks. So I went to bed at around 4 a.m., hoping I wouldn't miss anything important. It had been a long day, an exciting day for those of us charged with bringing such events to our readers. I was tired but extremely satisfied that our crew had done an exceptional job of covering this story to this point, and I could rest easy for a few hours, knowing that things were well in hand and that I had done what I could to help them do so. I drifted off to sleep.

And then at 4:36 a.m., my cell phone rang.

It was FOX, wanting to speak to Holli. Well, I was a bit confused, knowing that Holli is happily married, and I was fairly sure she wasn't anywhere near my house. Then it dawned on me; I had let Holli use my cell phone for the interview a few hours earlier, and they now had my cell number. So I explained this and the guy on the other end of the line said that they wanted to interview her again Tuesday night. I told the guy not to worry; we'd make sure it was arranged.

Literally seconds later, my land-line phone rang. It was the Associated Press, wanting to know if we had any updates on the situation. I told Walter that, no, nothing new that I knew of, but we had folks on the scene and I'd be sure to let him know if I heard anything.

A few minutes later, the cell phone rang again. Dude from FOX again. There had been some office workers released when the kidnappers took the attorney hostage, and he wanted to know if I could tell him who they were and if I could arrange an interview with them. No, I said. At this point, we didn't even know who they were, and as far as arranging an interview with them, that would be a matter of who got to them first.

Moments later, one of the phones rang again; I don't recall which one. It was MSNBC. Same question: "Do you know who the released hostages were?" Nope, I said. "But I'll be sure to let you know when we find out."

A little after 6 a.m., the land-line rings again. The AP was calling about reported shots or explosions at the scene. At this point I had to explain - again - that I'm not on the scene but we do have people there, and I'll check with them.

So I call Jake, who's positioned with a camera inside the soon-to-be-famous Blue Moon Cafe (private joke, sorry). Jake has heard nothing, which doesn't surprise me because he was obviously asleep when I called. I have no problem with the fact that he might have been napping because he and Michelle had been on the scene for some 20 hours by then. In fact, I may have been a little envious, as I had hoped to be snoozing myself by the timed I called him.

From this point on, things get a little blurry. I do know that FOX called again regarding the gunshots and/or explosions. I also know that for the first time I recall in my life, I actually had one phone on each ear, trying to listen to Jake and Michelle telling me what was going on in stereo. If I'd had a third phone, I'm sure it would have been ringing, too.

I also know I called The Boss to verify some things. We had at least two conversations that morning, but I don't even remember what those were about. I do remember him telling me to get some sleep so I would be sharp Tuesday night while I was doing what I'm paid to do. Which, of course, is not running around helter-skelter chasing stories, but putting together a cohesive, readable package of news.

But I didn't go to sleep that morning. I tried, but the sun was shining in through the windows, and there was a news story breaking. Just as I gave up on the idea of sleep at around 10 a.m., television stations were reporting that the crisis had ended and the alleged kidnappers had surrendered peacefully. There were indeed shots fired around 6 a.m., but no one was hurt.

I went on in to work and and the rest is local history. The bomb squads spent most of the day Tuesday detonating the explosives, and there's nothing alleged about those bombs because we could hear the occasional "BOOM!" from our building. This cat was apparently really armed and dangerous, and in retrospect, it's just fortunate that no one was hurt during what we news folk like to call "the ordeal."

So in the end, I lost a night's sleep, but gained some valuable experience when dealing with the dreaded national media.

I just hope I don't have to do it again anytime soon.

I do need my sleep, and I think the majority of our little town feels the same.

A dead animal for Luke

2005-12-02T22:33:00.000-08:00

In light of recent events, I've made a decision.

If I'm ever in a fantasy sports league with Luke, my team will be named the "Calico Cats."

Here's why.

Luke posts regularly, and in many of his updates, he gives us the latest on his fantasy sports teams. One of those teams, it seems, goes by the handle of "The Fighting Squirrels." (And judging from his reported results, his team is much squirrel, not so much fighting.)

And now I think I know why.

The only pet I keep these days is a cat. She's a low maintenance creature who sleeps all day until I get home from work late at night when I let her out for a randy romp around the yard and in the woods behind my house. I basically feed her, scratch the back of her head from time to time, thus acknowledging her existence, which seems to be all she cares about.

But she loves me and appreciates me, and I know this because she occasionally brings me gifts from her outdoor forays. She is, after all, a cat.

She's shown up at my door after her late-night frolicking with a variety of presents including countless mice, a cardinal here and there, a few Carolina wrens, and on rare occasions, small rat snakes.

I frown upon this practice, but she hasn't caught onto that, it seems. She's pretty good at acting as though she has nothing in her mouth by dropping it on the porch, then waiting for me to open the door before snatching the dead or dazed creature up and darting past me to drop the sometimes lifeless, sometime not-so-lifeless package on the floor. The dead ones are just annoying; the ones that spring to life with a very surprised attitude about their new surroundings can be challenging.

I've chased a few small creatures around for hours, and can only wonder what happened to the ones I couldn't catch before they found a refuge in some dark closet or corner.

But this cat recently outdid herself by upping the ante by sneaking in a new quarry.

I was sitting in the living room late one night (likely watching Jon Stewart or Steven Colbert), when I heard the usual ritual of screen-scratching at the front door. I bolted toward the door, yelling for the cat to stop the mesh-mauling. I yanked the door open, trying to let her in before she opened another mosquito sized hole in the screen.

As soon as I got the door open, the cat flew past me, and I caught a glimpse of something in her mouth, and knew that we had company again.

Only this time, it was BIG company.

"Oh, no," I thought. "She's brought one of those huge field rats in here and I'm gonna have to deal with catching that filthy sucker before I find it sitting on the sofa beside me one night sharing chips and beer."

I was wrong on both counts. It wasn't a field rat, and I wouldn't be sharing anything with the poor creature, which turned out to be a squirrel. By the time I got the cat to drop it under the coffee table, it had cracked its last nut and was bound for a plastic bag and a quick burial in the back yard.

And that, Luke, is the tale of the dead squirrel, and why you never want to be in a fantasy league with me and my "Calico Cats."

Name your team the "Fighting Felines" next year.

At least you'll have a fighting chance.

No lizards in the dryer tonight

2005-11-26T02:03:00.000-08:00

And no dead squirrels under the coffee table. I promise (maybe) to elaborate by Sunday.
Living in the woods with electricity and furniture is ... interesting.

UPDATE: (not really)

2005-10-28T01:08:00.000-07:00

OK, at the insistence of Luke and Kathy, I will be posting something on this blog this weekend. Just not tonight. Or this morning, as it appears to be.

I promise to post something about one of two things; either my perceived "courting" of the secretary of state (and future governor, I hope) of Georgia in the Herald parking lot Tuesday, or my latest astonishing discovery about the Internet.

Fortunately, neither Luke nor Kathy were there to observe the "courting" ritual, so anything they might say is hearsay.

Hearsay, I tells ya, hearsay. (Just a little legal talk for Luke and his "Law & Order" obsession.)

And that Internet thing is pretty amazing. Stay tuned. I may also address why it's OK to let your mom buy you clothes when you're 47 years old. That would be for Alex, who'll be spending the weekend in balmy South Dakota as she covers the sometimes mighty Georgia Southern Eagle football team.

All this and more may be coming your way this weekend, Luke and Kathy.

It certainly may. Because when it comes to commitment, I'm almost always halfway there.

"Cubs are World champs!" ... heh, heh ....

2005-10-07T14:26:00.000-07:00

Luke's latest post got me thinking about sports, bandwagons, and the fact that I haven't posted anything in a while.

Luke is a diehard Cubs fan, and proud of it. He apparently savors failure and disappointment, doggedly hanging onto hope each and every year as the inevitable collapse empties Wrigley Field at some point during the season, or at best, before the World Series begins.

He even compares his team's futility with
"Old Yeller"

But he's loyal. He refuses to jump on any bandwagon, even while surrounded and sometimes hounded by rabid Atlanta Braves fans at every turn since he settled in South Georgia.

But you can read all about that at the aforementioned blog.

And if you go there, you'll find this statement: "... most people 'claim' to have been Braves fans during the rough era of the 80s, despite the fact that no one, and I mean NO ONE went to the games. It wasn't until they started winning in 1991 that they all came out of the closet and claimed to be diehard Braves fans."

Strike one, Luke. Consider the following:

These are just a few of the ticket stubs I could lay my hands without even having to dig through a closet or drawer. (I also have, somewhere in this mess of a house, programs from games in 1970 and 1971, but that's not the point here.)

So let's look at a part of the above quote from Luke again; "no one, and I mean NO ONE went to the games" in the 1980's when the Braves were really bad.

Umm, I did.

If that's not enough proof that I was a Braves fan in the lean years, then consider this:

That's a signed baseball given to me by manager Chuck Tanner in 1987 (I think) at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium during a game with the Cardinals (well, he actually told me to give it to my daughter, who was a three-year-old doll at the time, but since she doesn't even know who Chuck Tanner is today, I get to keep it.) I was kinda hopin' he'd give us a ball signed by Dale Murphy, but, hey, you take what you can get.

I got that baseball because as I recall, there were less that 2,000 fans at that game, and wandering down to grab a seat atop the dugout was not an issue. See, the Braves were so bad back then, even the ushers lost interest, and anyone who was dumb enough to pay to watch that bunch play were pretty much free to roam that desolate stadium.

Point is, I was a fan. How many people do you think have a baseball signed by Chuck Tanner on a bookshelf? Chuck does have a World Series ring from 1979 when he led the Pirates to a World Series Championship, but that's about the one meaningful line on his resume.

Considering all of that, I came to a startling conclusion that may just fit in somewhere with Luke's philosophy of loving losers since childhood, and refusing to move on to greener pastures.

I actually believe I was more of a fan when the Braves were terrible.

I cared more then. I cared because I dreamed of the day Atlanta would just take that one step above the cellar floor. I don't think I ever really believed that the Braves would win one Division Championship, much less the ridiculous string of 14 consecutive titles they hold today.

I made the drive to Atlanta often, just hoping to see a rare win, and if that didn't happen, at least I'd been a part of something special, albeit an exercise in futility.

A very bad team is just as interesting as a very good team. That idea may not be very palatable to the puppies who claim allegiance to the current baseball powerhouses (i.e., Braves and Yankees), but when you make the effort and spend years, money and emotion on a small slice of hope, on rare occasions, you feel like you got the whole pie when reality just barely exceeds expectations.

Luke's right about one thing: When you make your choices at the age of nine, you may as well stick with 'em.

Because it's a rare day when the horse you're riding sees that greener grass on the other side of the fence.

And it's pretty disappointing when she discovers that it tastes no different from the chaff she's been munching on for the past four decades.

But through good times and bad, at least Braves fans don't shoot our pets.

Hey, bubba, we gots one!

2005-09-28T23:17:00.000-07:00

Once again, the human race, self-appointed stewards of the Earth, have made a great scientific discovery - and promptly screwed it up.

Japanese scientists recently released what's reported to be the first images of a live giant squid in the wild in the North Pacific Ocean. For those who may not know, giant squids have occasionally washed up on shores or been caught by fishermen. All of those specimens were either dead or dying.

Giant squids have legendary status in the marine world and have remained a mysterious, giant "sea monster" for centuries.

Well, we finally got one on film, and in our breathless haste to further science, injured the poor 25-foot long creature.

This from a National Geographic article;

"The scientists say they snapped more than 500 images of the massive cephalopod before it broke free after snagging itself on a hook. They also recovered one of the giant squid's two longest tentacles, which severed during its struggle."

Yep, that's our usual modus operandi.

"Hey, look at this marvelous creature that we've admired from afar for hundreds of years. Let's stick a hook in him, and tear a limb off!"

With stewards like us .....

Why is this man smiling?

2005-09-13T00:18:00.000-07:00

In honor of the dearly departed Sophisticated Redneck, who left the Statesboro Herald on his own terms (just as he promised), here's a caption contest.

Associated Press/2005 All Rights Reserved

Exactly why is this man smiling? Leave a comment with your best answer. (Click on the pic for a closer view.)

I'll post the real story that accompanied this picture in a week or so, if anyone cares. It's pretty interesting. And very strange

Prophetic

2005-09-09T23:51:00.000-07:00

I just discovered this National Geographic article from October, 2004.

Sound familiar?

Katrina again

2005-09-01T00:19:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah, and where are all the National Guard troops who are trained to handle such natural disasters as Katrina, Mr. President?

Oh, that's right.
Iraq.
Sorry, I forgot.
WMDs and all that.

Katrina and the boob tube

2005-08-31T23:09:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, I get it.

After watching television coverage of the tragedy that Hurricane Katrina brought to the Gulf Coast, I now understand why many people hate and distrust the media.

Understand; as an editor at a daily newspaper, I'm a media-type guy myself. But I retain the right to throw darts where I see a bulls-eye. And I can take 'em as well as I can toss 'em.

Earlier tonight, Nancy Grace commented on video of some of the apparently poverty-stricken folks wading through the flooded streets of New Orleans.

I'm paraphrasing her, but this is pretty much what she said: Some of those people don't even have shoes! And this is America!

I've got news for Nancy, who's obviously a pretty talking head who's never even dipped her toe into the pool of true journalism: There are a lot of people in America who consider shoes a luxury. And if you'd climb out from behind that desk and take the frightening risk of getting your dyed hair wet, you could see it for yourself.

I certainly don't mean to belittle the situation of the victims of Katrina, but having watched this story unfold on TV, I've just been disgusted by the "I can top the other guys (i.e. networks)" mentality, and the amazingly transparent concern of the anchors and reporters.

I guess I'm just old-school: These nice-looking folks sitting on their behinds staring into a camera can't possibly relate a story because they seem so pristine and sheltered. Most of them appear to be in their 20's and early 30's, and I'm sure they're well-trained and educated, but there's much more to life than that, and to accurately report on a story as large as Katrina's devastation, some perspective is required.

And I don't think these pretty young faces have an ounce of that.

But I'll bet they have a closet full of shoes, and plenty of flood insurance at their summer retreats.

A little R & R

2005-08-19T21:49:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from a vacation in Zephyrhills, Florida, which has become my home away from home over the past couple of years.

Zephyrhills is self-described as the "Pure Water Capitol of the World," and is a great place to sit on an outdoor patio with your feet propped up and a beautiful woman sitting across from you. The pure water part is optional, I think.

Life can be harsh at times.

It's pretty much paradise, if you let it be that.

And I do. I really do.

I spent a week in the 'Hills with Joey, and if I'd relaxed anymore, they would have had to scrape me off that patio, along with many editions of read newspapers, a recycler's dream in empty beer cans, and four "stray" cats.

We did, along with a friend, discover an out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant that serves the most authentic and flavorful real Mexican fare. If I could spell quesadilla, I'd elaborate - well, maybe I did spell it right. I'll check later, and elaborate later.

Oh, and I also met "Fun Bobby, "Fred Mertz," "Tiger Woods," and "Princess."

More on that later.

Right now, I need rest.

I've been on vacation, you know.

A dangerous creature (and a panther)

2005-08-05T22:15:00.000-07:00

Alison left this comment on the previous post: "That tiny little gator could probably take someone's head off."

Nope, Alison, THIS creature could take someone's head off.

And so could the panther.

That's a real, live rehab Florida panther that Joey and I got to play with a few years ago at a gathering. To those who weren't there, this might look dangerous and irresponsible, but it really wasn't. That panther acted for all the world like a big, well, kitten.

She was a beautiful animal, and her handler was duly licensed to care for her and show her in an attempt to impress the importance of preserving the species.

Today, the known population of Florida panthers is right at triple digits due to habitat loss and, of course, losses due to highway traffic on I-75 (Alligator Alley) and State Road 29 through the Everglades.

I'm just glad we had an opportunity to see and touch one of these amazing felines while they still stalk the Everglades, and before we bury them, like many other exotic species, beneath the pavement we call progress.

gator wrasslin'

2005-07-28T00:27:00.000-07:00

I've always thought that the wrong mouth was taped shut, but then she starts singing (Joey, not the gator), and I shut up, and remember whose lips should really be sewn together.

And that would be mine.

Update coming soon...

2005-07-21T02:20:00.000-07:00

A female musician wrestling an alligator and the same woman taming a Florida cougar!!!!!

Kinda like FOX Network, eh?

But this'll be fair and accurate, unlike Fox News.

Stay tuned .....

Buy this CD ... it's good, not evil

2005-07-12T23:46:00.000-07:00

Now that Joey's decided to use her blog for good rather than evil, I think I have the right to comment on her CD.
I'm qualified; I was right there every step of the way through the tortorous recording of Paradise Motel. This project sucked around 18 months from our lives, but in the end, we both agreed (and it's HER CD, so she's the only one who counts) that it was worth it.

Honestly, after listening to take after take of each and every line of each and every song as the tracks were mixed and edited again and again, I grew truly sick of those songs. (Don't worry, Joey won't be offended; she was sick of 'em too, of the very songs she wrote and sang.)

By the time the CD went to press, I'd rather have had a screwdriver jammed into either or both of my eardrums than to have to listen to those songs again, and I've always been her biggest fan. Heck, I fell in love with her as she sang those very songs at Willfest, the very folk festival where we met near Dade City, Fla.

But when the final master arrived and with the delivery of the CDs, all that changed.

I got to hear all those wonderful songs that I'd grown to loathe with a sterling cast of Nashville studio musicians backing her up, and those songs took on a life of their own.

Don't get me wrong; those songs will always be special to me. We spent many a night with her sitting across from me in my home, trying desperately to help me develop some semblance of skill with an acoustic guitar. There was neither a banjo nor mandolin within earshot, just that voice from Heaven accompanied by her deep, resonant Alvarez guitar. A guy should be so lucky, but most aren't.

I was.

She even bought me a Gibson Epiphone to that end, the very guitar I look at every night and think, "I should pick that thing up and make music."

Instead, I choose to do silly, unproductive things. (Like writing this blog post, for instance. I'll wise up one day, and when I do, I'll let you know, by posting it on this blog.)

But back to the CD.

In the end, it really was a labor of love, and the end product is remarkable. Some of the songs actually make me tear up to this day, and not because there's a screwdriver in my eardrum, but because I know the heart they came from, and that I had the unique opportunity of watching these songs take flight as fledglings, and evolve into what they mean to me today.

OK, I'm really biased, but I can tell you this; this music ain't Jessica Simpson, and it ain't Black Eyed Peas. It's just great music.

Can anyone say "depth?"

And, oh yeah, the CD got rave reviews when it was released.

Some guy named Scott gave it two thumbs up.

And he is one Highly Sophisticated Redneck.

Order your own copy of this CD, PLEASE, at shedonewent@yahoo.com.

Because the world today really needs lots of good, and a lot less evil.

And this CD is just plain good.

Insanity online

2005-07-10T12:21:00.000-07:00

This is just too good not to share with the world.

I love this woman.

And my kitchen used to look like that when she was here.

Now it's just, well, ...dirty.

When musicians drink

2005-07-08T18:54:00.000-07:00

My friend Joey sent me this picture she took of her friend and bass player Valerie at a recent jam.

Seems it was a magical Merlot moment.

It's an upright bass, Valerie. An upright bass.
Joey Errigo, 2005

Thoughts and prayers, please

2005-07-08T12:40:00.000-07:00

If you pray, please include this gentleman.

He's currently recovering from double-bypass surgery in Tallahassee.

I got to know him at the Florida Folk Festival this year, and I'm hoping to have many more conversations with him in the future.

Get well, Doug.

You still owe me some Tiger Sharks paraphernalia.

No, just get well. That'll be enough for me and all your friends and fans.

The rest of the story

2005-07-05T21:02:00.000-07:00

Well, since some folks were curious about the outcome to my last post, here's an update.

The phone did ring at 4 a.m. and it was, indeed, prepress Willie.

As I cringed, awaiting the worst, Willie, who can take a few minutes to get his point across (if you ever want to hear a true Southern drawwwwwwlllll, you need to meet Willie) informed me that they were plating the press as we spoke.

It seems power was restored around 2:30 a.m., and he was able to get everything together rather quickly without any assistance from me, so the paper hit the streets before dawn, which I consider a victory. (The carriers didn't think so, but then again, they wanted to blame me for the delay in the first place. They apparently think I have a great deal of influence with either the Man upstairs or Georgia Power.)

Anyway, that's the end of the story, and thank you to those who cared to ask.

But all this talk about the weather and the fact that there are currently two tropical systems lurking in the wings has given me an idea.

My friend in Florida's first year in the Sunshine State was an exciting one as she felt the effects of all four hurricanes that hit the state in 2004. As I recall, her home was pretty much in the direct path of two of those storms, and I spent hours on the phone with her as she huddled in her cracker house with no electricity and the fierce winds and rains howling outside her home.

She rode them out, and fortunately, with little damage. So I'm gonna see if I can get her to post a retrospective account of those nightmares on her blog. That should be entertaining, as she can now look back on the situation with a little humor, I think.

But she just paid a bookoodle of money for a new roof on her house, so she is NOT looking forward to this hurricane season.

The night the lights went out...

2005-07-04T01:31:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here at home at 1:30 a.m. waiting for the phone to ring, and that's not a good thing.

I'd prefer to be sitting here enjoying a beverage, a difficult day's work behind me, and gearing up for another one (day of work, not beverage).

But, alas, the difficult day may not be over for a while.

My workday usually begins around 3 or 4 p.m., as it did today, but today held a special surprise. When I got to the paper, I was quickly informed that our wire service had come to a screeching halt the night before.

After some investigation, I discovered that it had quit shortly after 3 a.m. Sunday morning. That meant that we had received NO wire stories since it went down.

Now, we're a small paper and have a more than competent staff of reporters who write enough local news stories to make our wire service somewhat of a luxury - a necessary luxury, mind you, but many days, it's used to fill out the paper rather than BE the paper.

But not on Sundays, and particularly on Sundays that fall on a holiday weekend when we have a skeleton staff (that skeleton would be mostly me).

Getting the wire service back up proved to be a more daunting task than usual, and I had to call a tech support guy in. Of course, he wasn't home, so I left a message on his machine. I then tried his cell phone, and he was "not available." (Turns out he was on his way home in what has to be one of the deadest cell areas on the globe (of course this is southeast Georgia, so that makes perfect sense.)

Anyway, he finally made it in, we figured out what the problems were and got the service back up and running again, even though we would have to call the Associated Press and request the resending of the stories we wanted. Which was tough, because we choose our wire stories based on an advisory search that, you guessed it, streams in over the wire.

But things weren't so bad because my employee-of-the-month editor Kathy (sometimes known as Flash) just happened to be in the building writing an editorial, and graciously lent her expertise. (In layman's terms, that means she built pages for me, thus helping to maintain my already thin grip on reality.)

So things went fairly smoothly thereafter. Alex, the sports reporter, who doubles as a sports editor on nights such as these, managed to get the job done for the sports pages and just before deadline, we were ready to hand off the pages to camera and prepress, who would transform our virtual pages to reality, thus facilitating the printing of our fine publication.

But let me back up a few hours. Late in the afternoon, I stepped outside and looked up into the southern sky, and was astounded to see a thunderhead exploding upward into the blue sky. That thunderhead was bubbling and boiling up as fast as I've ever seen, and as I'm a storm lover, I've seen a few.

As I watched that amazing sight, I thought, "Man, somebody's in for trouble tonight."

I'm sure you see where this is going.

Conditions began deteriorating as the storm approached, and the wind and rain began. Soon, there was an absolute deluge, followed by a slowly increasingly epic electrical storm, which peaked at, well, right around deadline time.

So just as we were preparing to hand off our work, the lights went out once ... twice .. and then for the dreaded third time.

And stayed out. No, we have no giant generator to bail us out in the event of such a power outage on the main grid.

And to top it off, we have the great convenience of having our own state-of-the-art printing press right there in the building. A state-of-the-art printing press that relies completely on electricity.

Two hours later, there was still only darkness, rain, wind and more lightning, along with a parking lot full of frustrated, irritated newspaper carriers who saw their already long nights and mornings looking longer and longer. Nope, no happy campers there.

After letting Alex go, and assuring her we could finish up what little she had left to do, I sat in the dark, waiting for that startling moment when absolute silence is interrupted by the clicks, beeps and hums of computers, servers and fluorescent lights coming to life.

Well, after more than two hours,it didn't come, so prepress Willie, who had the weight of the paper squarely on his shoulders at that time, convinced me to head for home while he would wait for the problem to be resolved.

Eventually, I admitted that there really was nothing I could do, and got in my truck and headed home, which is some 15 minutes from the workplace. I told Willie to call me if things didn't start looking up in the next couple of hours, and I'd come back in and we'd start making phone calls and scrambling for some ideas of how to deal with this potential disaster.

But here's the scary thing. My way home included a stretch through the south side of town, which was totally blacked out. On a whim, I stopped at a dead traffic light and walked over to the cop whose job was to direct what little traffic there was at that intersection.

I asked him if knew what happened and how long it might be before the electricity was restored.

He looked at me out the window of his cruiser and said, "No, sir. Georgia Power just got here and are starting to look for the problem."

I had really been hoping for,"Oh yeah, they'll have everything back online within the next few minutes."

So I'm now at home, writing this to while away the nervous minutes. In my more than eight years at the Herald, we've always, ALWAYS, gotten the newspaper out, albeit very late sometimes due to weather or technical issues.

Tonight, I'm a bit worried, and hoping those who make lots more money than me have some kind of contingency plan in place. But I know that right now, they're sound asleep somewhere, probably vacationing for the holiday weekend.

I know we'll get that paper out; my question is, what will I have to do to be sure?

For now, I'll just sit here by the phone and hope it doesn't ring.

Thanks Jake, and Alison gets an assist

2005-06-29T00:37:00.000-07:00

Just trying out the new imaging program on Blogger as suggested by Jake and Alison.

The little one is my great-niece Madeline and the adult is my just plain great daughter Eliza, whose cell phone bills inspire me to go to work each and every day.

This new Blogger imaging program is so easy, I'm thinking even my dear friend Joey can figure it out.

But I ain't bettin' on it.

I'm thinking, I'm thinking

2005-06-26T00:12:00.000-07:00

I was going to post something tonight, but got sidetracked.

First, there was an excellent show on meteors on the History Channel, (I'm an amateur astronomer. Very amateur, but very interested.)

That was followed by an intriguing look at the history of methods of the death penalty throughout the world.

I will, if ever offered the opportunity, witness an execution as a journalist. I'm a proponent of capital punishment, and I'd like to discover just how big my onions are.

I suspect my views on the death penalty could be swayed, but I don't think so. Still, I'd like to have them tested by fire.

And now I'm listening to a spirited debate on the Internet about 9/11 and all the theories and conspiracies spawned by that terrible day. And imagine this; the mudslinging is running rampant.

Well, I guess I did post something.

Just not much. I may expound on all this later.

And don't get me started on the man/God/ET debate.

The one thing I've done right in my life

2005-06-22T23:21:00.000-07:00

I just couldn't help it.

My beautiful and brilliant daughter Eliza came down from north Georgia for a visit this week, and I just had to share a photo.

Beauty and the beast. (Captain Obvious notes: She's the one on the left.
Sergeant Obviously Obvious adds: YOUR left.)

Fortunately, she has her mother's looks, brains and general social skills, so she's doing well.

But what she got from me is far more important because I gave her the key to a successful life before she chose a major in college.

"Anything but journalism, baby. Anything but journalism."

She's set to graduate in December with a degree in psychology.

Smart girl, huh?.

What have I done???

2005-06-21T21:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I did it.

I got my Florida friend blogging, and she's off and running. She's still learning some basics so please overlook any weirdness that may appear on her blog in the near future.

I'm sure you'll find her as amusing and entertaining as I do, but remember one thing: Hands off! She's mine!

(Boy, I'm gonna get a scolding for THAT remark.)

Anyway, HERRRREEEE's Joey!

Be sure to read her first post first. And make sure you read her, um ... lengthy, profile.

True cowardice

2005-06-19T21:32:00.000-07:00

While looking through the Associated Press photos tonight at the newspaper, I came across an interesting, yet utterly disturbing picture from Iraq.

While searching for a photo to accompany the front page story on the restaurant suicide bombing in Iraq, I actually found one of the remains of the suicide bomber.

Apparently, what was left of him was taken away from the carnage he created - and believe me, folks, it was total and complete carnage the pictures portrayed - and carried out into an open area on a street, where the photographer got a graphic shot of the mangled remains as an Iraqi policeman raised his foot as if to stomp what was left of the guy, undoubtedly in total frustration and disgust.

(According to the cutline, the cop caught himself and didn't actually follow through with his act, but that picture spoke volumes about what's going on Iraq.)

In our profession, we see many graphic and violent images on the wire, but this one was a little different for me.

As I looked at the bomber's remains, my thoughts echoed David Letterman's remarks soon after 9/11.

To paraphrase Letterman: THIS in the name of RELIGION?

A man straps explosives to his body, and slaughters and maims a room full of likely innocent people?

To what end? To intimidate? To reach some sort of bizarre level of afterlife by blowing himself to smithereens, and taking at least 23 restaurant patrons with him?

I understand the concept of martyrdom. I do believe that Martin Luther King Jr. was a martyr for civil rights, but not by his choosing. And I believe his death opened many eyes to many injustices.

But to slaughter one's self for the express purpose of killing innocents to further a cause just makes no sense to me.

I know, I know; many believe the U.S. is just as culpable by our actions in Iraq and Afghanistan, but I'm not going there tonight.

And I know I'm greatly simplifying the multi-faceted, confusing situation in Iraq, and even around the world.

I also know that suicide bomber in Iraq was no martyr.

He took himself out of the picture entirely. His last act to further his beliefs produced nothing of value to anyone or anything on this planet.

As I looked at that photo, I could only think one thing.

That guy was no martyr; he was a coward, pure and simple.

He's gone now, and will never have to face the consequences of his actions here on earth.

He was no soldier; he deserves no respect, no sympathy.

He was just a coward, a torn, tattered shadow of a torso and head left lying in the street after a despicable act.

I guess you could just say he's already gotten his just reward.

As for those he slaughtered, they just may be the true martyrs. Because they unwillingly died for a cause they may not have even championed.

They were likely similar to those of us that go about the business of living each day, our minds set on helping others, not creating murderous havoc that's fueled by our own cowardice.

Monarch or viceroy ... grrrrrr

2005-06-17T00:30:00.000-07:00

Unlike Luke. I refuse to sully this tiny corner of cyberspace with any comment on a trial verdict reached thousands of miles from my comfortable little abode this week.

I also won't wax political, nor will I whine (umm, rant; sorry, Luke).

Because I'm above all that.

Instead, I have a question of import for my faithful readers (both of them, including me.)

My dear friend in Florida sent me this picture she took in her backyard garden Thursday, and we're wondering: Is this butterfly a monarch or a viceroy?

Monarch or viceroy?
Joey Errigo/2005 All Rights Reserved

We think it's a monarch, but aren't sure because viceroys sometimes mimic monarchs and ....... HE'S GUILTY, YOU STUPID LEFT COAST CASTAWAYS! MICHAEL JACKSON IS GUILTY!

O.J. WAS GUILTY!

ROBERT BLAKE WAS GUILTY!

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

YOU LIVE IN A STATE THAT WILL DROP INTO THE OCEAN ANY DAY, AND WE UNEVOLVED HICKS HERE IN THE SOUTH ARE THINKING ONE THING; THE SOONER THE BETTER!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?....

So, is it a monarch or a viceroy?

We'd really like to know.

We're pretty sure it's a monarch, but we're not certain.

Playing in the mud, the picture

2005-06-13T22:29:00.000-07:00

Let's play in the mud, y'all

2005-06-11T00:47:00.000-07:00

I think most of us parents are way too uptight these days.

We worry too much about things our parents and grandparents wouldn't have given a second thought when we were kids.

This thought was brought home to me recently when I arrived at work to find a picture on my desktop, left there by the editor who actually slept in her office over the weekend.

It seems Flash let her two adorable children actually PLAY IN THE PUDDLES AND MUD after the recent rains that headlined a recent edition of our newspaper.

Lord knows, many parents today would be appalled.

"Why, they might get ringworm," some would say. "They could step on a sharp object," another might fret. I can hear Biff and Buffy say "My, there must be germs in that water. How can she live with herself, putting those dear children at risk?"

Yeah, yeah.

Here's the deal; I never wore a helmet or knee or elbow pads when I rode a bike as a kid. I busted my butt on bicycles many times, and the worst I ever got was a deep gash in a thigh long before my understanding of the laws of physics. (Note, kids: If you plan to jump a ditch on a Ryder, use a ramp. Gravity is an unforgiving force.)

Well, I may not be the best example for my point, but I'm still here, ain't I, in some form or fashion? My parents, as loving and protecting as they were, let me be a kid. Of course when I was a child, all that protective gear was just a gleam in some entrepreneur's eye.

My own daughter, who is now a well-adjusted, level-headed senior in college, had her share of "accidents" while playing. She once busted her mouth on a metal playground apparatus. After a few moments of terror and alarm - by both of us, her lips stopped bleeding and the pain eased.

The next day, she was actually mesmerized by the swelling and purple hues her little mouth was sporting. In fact, she was kinda proud of her war wounds.

On another occasion, she slipped on a pool deck, and ended up with the most horrific foot full of huge splinters. After an hour or so with a pair of tweezers, a needle and much drama, she was as good as new, and the whole incident was forgotten within a few days.

Then she broke her ankle at the bottom of a slide when she was in elementary school. She was in a cast for a few months, and came out of the ordeal, as always, good as new.

The point is this: With all the bad things that can happen to children today, the one thing that may do the most damage is not allowing them to play and be kids while they are kids, and to try to protect them from every possible nick and scratch.

Because life is full of ditches without ramps, replete with large splinters, and in the adult world, there's a mudhole around every corner, just teeming with germs and sharp objects.

So let 'em play while they can. It's what they do best.

And so it begins ...

2005-06-07T21:25:00.000-07:00

My effort to live a healthier lifestyle (see previous post) is under way.

Through the lips and over the gums ... ah, crap, I can't drink this stuff warm

The cranberry juice is just the beginning. Tomorrow morning, I'll start my day with three laps around the coffee table, (walking of course; you can't rush these things) followed by a brisk saunter to my truck, which is parked an excruciatingly distant three feet from my front porch.

I'll then do some upper body work by muscling the gearshift into drive, followed by some footwork. Brake, accelerator, brake, accelerator...

Then, if I have anything left, I'll put in a day of work. I'll edit left, edit right, edit left, edit right until I can longer edit. (Although some would say I can't edit in any direction.)

I'll then repeat the process in reverse and head home, where I'll promptly get back at it by jogging up my front porch steps.

Both of them.

If I have the energy, I'll then sprint to the fridge, and treat myself to - what else? - a tall cool glass of cranberry juice.

What a day.

But I know that if I follow this routine daily for the next six months, no one will recognize me.

I'm sure I'll look quite different in a wheelchair.

Note: Cranberry juice provided by Kathy
And orders to drink said juice provided by Joey, the whip

Tough love, I guess

2005-06-04T22:45:00.000-07:00

As anyone who works with me knows, I've had a miserable week.

The gout has got me, and it ain't lettin' go.

Much of the past week, my right ankle and foot looked like Popeye's bicep after a spinach overdose, but without the strength, or the humor.

Balloon artists would salivate over this bloated mess.

So I did what any suffering blogger would do: I sent pictures of the offending appendage to those who might care.

I sent a picture to the editor stranded in her office due to the flooding in the area (hey, she had nothing better to do.)

I also sent a picture to the woman who fulfils my dreams; the one from whom I can always expect sympathy.

What I got from her was a lecture, wrapped up in a terse, chilling email. No sympathy, empathy or condolences, just a hard, cold lecture about my diet and lifestyle.

Now, when I say lifestyle, I really mean a lack thereof.

So as for the lifestyle issue, she wrote this: "You need to make a dramatic diet and exercise change. Get up a little earlier. Join a gym and go swimming or do something (gardening?) every day. Even if you don't like it."

As for the diet she wrote this: "There's no telling what is in that restaurant food, or processed food that you probably eat every day...Eat poached Salmon, or some kind of healthy fish, 2-3 times a week. You need to eat fresh fruits and vegetables, but watch the dressing...read the label. Olive oil and vinegar is best. Even if you don't like it - make yourself drink the cranberry juice. Hold your nose."

And all these years, I thought she loved me. Well, at least I know she KNOWS me.

Gotta run. Dawn is beckoning and I don't mean Mary Ann. I've got a cranberry juice swim scheduled, followed by a label-reading tutorial and a community service session with Martha Stewart.

It seems I'll be poached and swimming upstream from now on, without the spawning.

Thanks, honey.

Just kidding, of course. She's right, and she DOES know me well, so I plan to take her advice, at least some of it. Because I'm still sitting here with my foot propped up on a pillow atop an end table as I write this. It's now been a full week of this hilarity, and I'm thinking it's getting a little old.

I do have the dignity not to post a photo of the foot here. Unless someone asks nicely.

In the meantime, I'm gonna hobble out to the garden and eat some weeds, holding my nose as I go.

I hear dandelions are low in acid and have very little red meat content.

And Dawn is still beckoning.

i'm back ... again

2005-06-04T00:39:00.000-07:00

Well, since Kathy finally started blogging and Luke tried to redeem himself with a long-awaited post, I guess it's my turn to get back into the swing of things.

I believe my last post was about my imagined love affair with Rhonda Vincent, a cute and talented bluegrass/country musician. I saw her live in Statesboro, got to meet her after her show, and enjoyed every minute of it in many ways.

I've since stepped up in the world, as I spent the past weekend at the Florida Folk Festival, where I got to get up close and personal with the legendary Emmylou Harris.

Well. I did get close as we were in the front row, but I guess it wasn't personal at all because Emmylou is a rock star now.

Emmylou Harris at the Florida Folk Festival in White Springs, Fla. in 2005. Eddie Ledbetter/2005 All Rights Reserved

Nobody gets anywhere near Emmylou, I quickly discovered.

Still I did manage to get a few nice photos of her, due to the fact that I was in the front row, thanks to my favorite singer/songwriter, who now merits some pull in the quirky world of music.

My friend Joey played often and well at this festival, and broadened her fan base substantially over the weekend.

That makes me very happy, because it makes her happy.

My love of many years and the world's greatest undiscovered singer/songwriter Joey Errigo. Eddie Ledbetter/2005 All Rights Reserved

Anyway, despite a major power outage during the grand finale at the longest-running folk festival in America - this was the 53rd consecutive - a great time was had by all, especially me.

I got to see and photograph an American musical legend.

And I got to take pictures of Emmylou, too.

I'm back and nobody will ever know it

2005-05-07T23:57:00.000-07:00

Well, my dastardly plan is complete.

I blogged, I stopped blogging so everyone would forget about it, and now I'm gonna write what I really think, since no one will be reading it.

I am an evil genius.

I'm also a wimpy, sick evil genius tonight. I woke up with the sore throat from hell this morning, and physically, it all went downhill from there. I feel a little better tonight, aside from the fact that every joint in my body is screaming at every move, leading me to believe that there will be no sleep for me for a while.

So I'm blogging again, even as I hear strange noises coming from my shoulders and wrists as I do so. I mean, I'm aching.

But all that's OK, because I'm drawing from the medicine of recent memory. I saw Rhonda Vincent and the Rage live at the Georgia Southern Performing Arts Center Friday night, and better still, got to chat briefly with Rhonda Vincent after the crowd cleared and while she was waiting for her bus to pull around to the front of the PAC for their trip to Memphis for a Saturday night show.

And having seen her show live and meeting her band members, here's what I think: Rhonda Vincent is a mostly undiscovered treasure.

She's wildly popular in some parts, but her true bluegrass roots defy the cult of mainstream music. Her music borders on folk, gospel and country, but settles in comfortably with most of the bluegrass crowd, and just defines the term "crossover."

No matter the definition of her music, one thing is certain: she's a beautiful and immensely talented woman who surrounds herself with some of the best pickers in the business, and abides by the old bluegrass standard: the people who pay to hear you play MATTER.

She signed every autograph requested and posed for every picture after a two-and-a-half hour show, and did so with patience and grace.

Even with me.

Me and the beautiful and talented Rhonda Vincent ... sigh

Going south

2005-04-21T23:33:00.000-07:00

Hopefully, by the time anyone reads this, I'll be either on my way to, or settled in at, my home away from home in central Florida for a weekend of relaxation and festival music.

And here's who I'm going to visit ...

No really, that's her.

I may or may not post anything while I'm there, but I plan to take LOTS of pictures, and with the folks I'll be spending time with, the above picture will likely be the norm rather than the exception when I do get around to posting again. I promise to share.

So while Stacey's exploring the glory of Virginia in the Spring, I'll be at a lower latitude, rediscovering a different kind of beauty.

Gotta run.

I've once again employed my flawless plan for packing for a trip; I've uttered the seven magic words.

"Oh, I'll just pack in the morning."

Works every time, and never very well.

"100 things," the home stretch

2005-04-19T22:59:00.000-07:00

Alright, here's the much-awaited conclusion to my "100 Things" list.

I'm sure someone out there was waiting for this. Or not.

Anyway, here's the skinny ...

51. Since my aforementioned divorce, I've dated some wonderful, beautiful women.
52. And I've managed to screw it up almost every time.
53. I tend to sigh a lot when I recall those women.
54. But I don't feel too badly; I didn't deserve 'em in the first place.
55. Sigh.
56. I feel a strong need to change the subject to take my mind off those women, so back to sports.
57. I was on hand to see Michael Jordan play at his last appearance at Philips Arena in Atlanta.
58. I watched that game with the best of those women.
59. Sigh.
60. I also saw Hank Aaron hit a home run at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium in 1970.
61. No sigh there. I was 12 then, and the Apollo moon landing was still on my mind.
62. I did not, nor ever have had a crush on Michael Jordan or Hank Aaron.
63. Around that time, my parents bought me a Viewmaster projector, and a life-sized Neil Armstrong magically appeared on our living room wall.
64. I thought Neil Armstrong was a very two-dimensional man, despite the fact that he was tooling around on the moon.
65. That living room wall was very flat.
66. I talked to my daughter recently; she's still a brunette and she's still smarter than me.
67. So I'm a happy camper.
68. Talking to my daughter is just, well, fun.
69. She's my only known child.
70. I have attempted to learn to play the banjo.
71. I do not know why.
72. And, no, I'm not very good at that either.
73. On the shelf above my bar are two shrink-wrapped boxes of "Honey Nut Oats" and "Frosted Flakes" cereals commemorating the Atlanta Thrashers' inaugural season in 1999/2000. And they've been there since 1999.

Old, OLD cereal.
74. I love me some Thrashers and the sport of professional hockey.
75. But I hate the National Hockey League, since they totally abandoned their fans and scrubbed the past season.
76. I'm wondering what may be residing in two six-year old boxes of cereal, since the shrink-wrap has many holes in it.
77. I may have just figured out what's making that rustling sound at night.
78. But I ain't lookin'.
79. Because I may have just figured out what might be making that rustling sound ...
80. If you form an anagram from my name, the best one is "Better Idle Deed." (Thanks to Stacey for that little exercise in wordplay.)
81. That particular anangram feels strangely appropriate. Especially the "idle" part.
82. I have a great-niece named Madeline.
83. She's currently 1-and-a-half years old and is a delightful, wonderful, beautiful child.

This is Madeline. Ain't she a cutie?
84. I'm way too young to have a great-niece.
85. Well, no I'm not.
86. But I am too ugly to have a child this beautiful who's related to me.
87. I have slept outdoors in a sleeping bag on a night when the temperature dipped to 17 degrees.
88. And enjoyed it.
89. I used to be very good at rough camping.
90. Apparently, I am also too dumb to be related to some very intelligent people, but I am.
91. Like Madeline, for instance.
92. But camping aside, now I feel panicky without a television, a computer and a camera within reach.
93. It's fair to say that I'm not so good at rough camping anymore.
94. But I did try to sleep in the cab of my Ford F-150 truck in Florida on a couple of cool nights at a music festival recently.
95. As hard as I tried, I did NOT sleep, due to serious discomfort from trying to stretch my long frame out in the cab of a truck.
96. Lesson learned.
97. I'm not a young man anymore, and never will be.
98. That means my only alternative to growing older is not a good one.
99. So I thank God every day for the fact that I'm just still here, grinding onward.
100. As I tell anyone who'll listen, I'm just happy to be here.
BONUS INFO: When the ultimate push comes to the ultimate shove, forget the previous 100 things about me; fact is, I'm just truly happy to be here.

Back at the post

2005-04-19T20:43:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm back to posting.

To Luke and Stacey, well, thanks for caring.

Fact is, I've been dealing with some personal issues over the past couple of weeks (potential serious illness in the immediate family and an ugly situation my friend in Florida found herself in recently.) So my mind has been obsessed by more serious matters, and I just don't care to share those kinds of things with everyone.

And, as Scott correctly hypothesized, I've been watching WAY too much television, perhaps as a means of diversion from the aforementioned situations.

But things are settling down a bit, and looking a lot better on both fronts.

So while I don't really have anything of interest to offer tonight, let me tell you that an interesting thing happened at the newspaper today.

Luke, one of our award-winning columnists (how does that sound, Luke?) wrote a BRILLIANT column today rebutting a column by syndicated Georgia columnist Dick Yarbrough.

Yarbrough is a nice and pleasant man in person; I know because I've met him several times. But his weekly column reveals him as a dyed-in-the-wool right-wing nut, and he tends to fall in line with the high-and-mighty know-it-all conservatives by trashing anything politically just left of center and beyond.

So this week he writes a column trashing The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, a very funny and bright satirical news show on Comedy Central. If you haven't seen the show, you need to.

We decided to hold Yarbrough's column, which usually runs in Wednesday's paper opposite somewhat liberal Bill Shipp's column, and run it Thursday so Luke's rebuttal can run the same day, because Luke absolutely skewers Yarbrough.

I mean, Luke's column is a thing of beauty, and better still, it's right on, supported by solid research and verifiable facts.

If you can't get your hands on a Statesboro Herald Thursday, hopefully Luke will post his column on his blog after it publishes, and you can read it for yourself.

I'm still working on my second half of my "100 Things," so I'll get that up soon, maybe tonight.

In the meantime, all hail Luke.

He stepped out of the box.

What's in a name?

2005-04-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

OK, I stole this directly from Stacey's blog, but it's just too good not to share.

Go here and type in your name. What you'll get is a complete anagram of your name, and some of them are pretty funny. And some are way too appropriate.

Then go down to the "try another subject" button and check out the name of everyone you can think of. I've already tried the names of everyone in the news room, and I'm here to tell ya, Jim's is the best, with Kathy close behind (Flash, we didn't know this about you; not that there's anything wrong with that...)

And Tater's is a pretty good one, too.

By the way, from this point forward I prefer to be called "Better Idle Deed."

Or just "Mr. Deed" to you, Aha! Jam knell.

Fair and Balanced ...

2005-04-02T22:24:00.000-08:00

Here's a pic of the FOX News web site home page at around 12:30 a.m. Sunday morning. Scroll down for details ...

... and Stupid

2005-04-02T21:41:00.000-08:00

(Click on the photo for a closer look.) I work at a small daily newspaper. I make mistakes. But if I were King Murdoch with all his gold and silver, I'd have someone's head for this. And for all the FOX employees, it's spelled "gestures."

Erin, the Carolina girl

2005-04-01T02:16:00.000-08:00

We really miss this little woman at the Herald.
We especially miss her quirky headwear.