Just some thoughts.

Peace at last

2005-04-11T11:33:00.000-04:00

This weekend was about as perfect as any weekend could be.

Saturday
I drove down to the Gutowskis' house (my aunt, uncle and cousins) and went to see my cousin Gail play in the pit orchestra of her high school's production of "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." The pit sounded great, and the cast looked like it was having fun. Before the show, we went to Mass at Our Lady Star of the Sea. The church is located right on the opening of the Patuxent River, so when you come out the doors after Mass is over you're looking at this green field, sparkling water and a huge bridge (which I call the bridge of death).

Sunday
Had a big breakfast at Gutowski central and then drove to Fredericksburg. Let me tell you about the drive to Fredericksburg. Wow. I had the windows down and the sunroof open the whole way, and drove on these great country back roads all the way (about an hour and a half). Mapquest was going to send me back up to DC, across the Potomac, and then down I-95, but I said "Bah!" to that. I spend too much time on interstates - need to see something different.

Well, different it was. The road between Lusby, Md., and Fredericksburg, Va., is a beautiful, meandering ribbon of highway that bends and flows over these huge rolling hills and underneath a canopy of massive trees that are just beginning to bud, so that you can still see all the branches clearly, with only little traces of green on the ends. There was a winery on the way, too, so I stopped and tasted some. Most of it, I thought, was kind of ... well, awful ... but there was a good dessert wine, so I bought a bottle of that. It's in my fridge now, and when I do decide to drink it, it will probably be from a plastic cup, or even classier, a coffee mug. I think one might call that "intern chic."

After you drive through the Northern Neck of Virginia (which is a weird title for a landform that in no way resembles a neck), the road stabilizes and you hit Fredericksburg. Some time ago a little boy used to play here, hanging out at his aunt's house and skipping stones across the nearby Rappahannock River. His name was George. George Washington. I never ceased to be amazed at how matter of fact the people around here are. "Oh, yeah, this is where George Washington was born..." Ho, hum. I ended up spending the afternoon reading in a small courtyard behind the visitor's center, which is covered by a big tree and is accessible by traveling down a narrow alleyway. I kept feeling like I should have had a lantern and tri-cornered hat, even though it was the middle of the daytime.

Oh, by the way, the difference between Maryland and Virginia seems like night and day. When you cross into Virginia you realize immediately that you are, without a doubt, in the south. US-1 is called the "Jefferson Davis Highway," Confederate flags are a common sight and there's even a cemetery for Confederate soldiers nearby.

That evening, I met Nick and Angela Candela for dinner. Nick and I have known each other practically since birth, and he and Angela now teach high school in Stafford County. We had a great time catching up and walking around the city, looking at sights that included a church with civil war cannonballs still lodged in the facade, and a terraced cemetery that looks like a giant green staircase.

They're both GREAT people, and had funny stories to tell about the school they teach in, especially in realizing how much younger their students are.

Angela one day told her class to please "raise your hands in the air."

When she realized what she had said, she followed up with, "Now wave 'em like you just don't care."

They all started waving, many of them oblivious to the music reference.

Ticked off.

2005-04-03T12:38:00.000-04:00

MSU's men's basketball team lost its final four game against North Carolina last night. Crowds gathered in the streets of East Lansing, chanting "Go Green, Go White" across the road to each other.

So, naturally, the police tear gassed them.

I wasn't there. I didn't witness it. But I've read The State News account and I trust that newspaper and its staff to deliver the truth. And the truth, in their story, is that the tear gassing was not provoked, except by the presence of a huge crowd.

I was unaware that standing outdoors was illegal in that fine city.

Here's why I'm angry: When we "riot" in East Lansing, the university's reputation and the city's reputation suffer. In past years, I've felt comfortable placing the blame squarely where it belongs -- on the shoulders of the students who lit stuff on fire and did other stupid stuff.

Now, I'm not so sure. Among those tear-gassed last night was a guy named Lee June. Who is Lee June, you non-Spartans ask? He's the university's vice president for student affairs. Even he told the S'News that he didn't see provocation on the part of the students. He declined (probably wisely) to comment on police actions.

I understand the cops in that area are jumpy. I would be too after MSU's history of riots. I also understand that you have to contain a crowd, but all accounts indicate that the tear gas is what incited the violence. People scattered for cover, police blocked their way, and the kids turned violent. Violence is always inexcusable, but I can't help but wonder if it would have happened had that first canister not been released.

(Slightly homesick.)

2005-03-28T00:01:00.000-05:00

When I lived in Wyandotte, I used to sleep with my windows open, and on summer nights I would hear the maple leaves rustling outside the window, or the sound of solitary footsteps from the lady down the street who walks to Biddle and back all day long without explanation. Sometimes an ambulance would go down Third Street, only at night the traffic is light enough that they only use flashers, not sirens, so you wouldn't know it was coming until suddenly the whole neighborhood sparkled with red and white for a few brief seconds. Rarely, but enough to make it memorable, people would walk down the street talking to each other, not realizing how far voices carry at night. Some were arguing, others were talking out a problem as a friend or sibling or spouse or parent listened. Most were just making small talk.

Morning was the best part of sleeping with the windows open. The first thing I felt every summer morning was a cool breeze on my face and fresh air in my lungs. Doesn't get any better than that. The sounds were nice, too: a lawnmower at the end of the block, or the bells at St. John's down on Fourth Street, shepherding that Sunday's crowd in to worship. On my better mornings, I'd get up, shower, take a cup of coffee and the Free Press out onto the front porch and enjoy the day as I caught up on the overnight goings on. On my worse mornings, I'd get up, shower, watch TV. Either way, not a bad deal.

I heard somewhere -- and I can't remember where for the life of me -- but I heard somewhere that home is more of an idea than it is a place. There comes a point when "your house" becomes "your parents' house," and even though you grew up there, and even though you can still find your way around in the pitch blackness, and even though you know the hot plates are in the far drawer under the TV and the backporch won't lock unless you bump the door with your hip, it's not home anymore. You're a visitor. You're a guest. I don't know if I feel that way about home yet. I still walk in without knocking, and I still don't ask before I eat the food, or invite friends over to sit on the back porch. But it feels different now.

So, yeah, I miss home.

IMAX

2005-03-23T14:28:00.000-05:00

Silly.

Media diet

2005-03-20T19:39:00.000-05:00

A lot of people have been complaining about the media's incessant coverage of Congressional intervention into both steroids in baseball and the Terry Schiavo case in Florida.

They argue that Congress is sticking its nose where it doesn't belong and the media is contributing energy and attention to something that isn't really impactful to other Americans.

But isn't it incumbent on the media to point out that our national leaders are doing these things? Would you feel good if you felt Congress was wasting its time or overstepping its bounds, but no one knew about it? The fact there's media paying attention to it is the only reason these people can have an opinion about whether it's right or wrong at all.

When was the last time you attended a hearing of the House Committee on Government Oversight? Have you met the President of the United States? Ever been to Iraq? No? Well, me either. But you and I know that Mark McGwire testified to the House committee. We know that George W. Bush is the president, and we know what he thinks about a lot of things. We know that there's a war going on in Iraq and what it looks like. And we know that because there's a throng of cameras and notebooks everywhere.

Maybe some priorities are messed up. Maybe some of the portions in our media diet are a little off kilter. But never, never criticize something for being on the plate, especially not coverage of some of the nation's most powerful leaders (who, by the way, we all hired and we all pay).

Some people...

2005-03-17T23:57:00.000-05:00

... need to read this.

What do you all think?

The Gridiron, the great one, and the graduate.

2005-03-12T01:48:00.000-05:00

Time now for a disorganized mess of an update, due in part to the fact I haven't had time to write and a lot of good things have happened.

My job goes well. I am discovering new things every day, new ways to source stories, new people to talk to, and last but not least, the inner workings of Washington media and politics. Today I went to the dress rehearsal for the Gridiron Club dinner. The Gridiron Club is a group of D.C. journalists and it exists almost solely for the purpose of putting on this big song-and-dance dinner show every year, which is an absolute riot. They do a Democrats skit and a Republicans skit, and usually have large-scale politicians (frequently the President) on hand to watch. This year's show features some amazing work, including a solo from Helen Thomas.

Helen Thomas, by the way, is an amazing woman. For those of you who don't know (because I've gotten a couple comments of "Who?" from some friends) Helen Thomas has been the White House correspondent since JFK's presidency, was the first female member of the White House correspondent's association, and is essentially a journalistic legend. Beyond that, she's a Detroiter, has a great sense of humor and is absolutely the kindest woman I've ever seen (unless you're the target of her journalistic ire -- then she's tough).

Old friends and acquaintances are coming out of the woodwork. Thanks to The Facebook, I've been talking to a kid I went to KINDERGARTEN with. His name is Phil, although when we were little he went by "Phillip." We used to hang out together at Montessori all the time. He's going to be a teacher and, through the miracle of The Facebook, found me and struck up a dialogue. It's been fun to see how many people I can find (or in this case, how many find me).

Also, a blast from the journalistic past: Robin Sloan, who I interviewed for a story in The State News back in 2002, popped up in a LiveJournal community I monitor. He produced a flash movie about the future of media. In it, he poses the theory that mainstream media will be significantly reduced or gone by 2014 because of advances in Internet technology that customize news for consumers. I don't believe him, as a gatherer of news. The process is too long and complicated for computers to handle it. Computers cannot observe, they cannot ask questions (necessarily) and they cannot necessarily form links between events. Some people would add the word "yet" in there, but I remain hopeful that no computer will ever outsmart a human newsperson. He's a good person, and the movie he did is well-produced, but for my own sake, the sake of Democracy, and the sake of the American people, I hope he's wrong.

Wading in the Water

2005-03-06T22:38:00.000-05:00

Went to a "Gospel Brunch" today. If you've never heard of such a thing, here's how it works: This art gallery down by The White House serves brunch every Sunday morning while a Gospel choir performs, and then afterward you wander around the gallery looking at artwork.

A PERFECT way to spend a Sunday morning. They even sang "Wade in the Water," at my request.

Saturdays

2005-03-05T19:26:00.000-05:00

Saturdays are strange days when you're on your own.

They're the days that nothing happens. You don't work, there's nothing good on TV, and you have to resist the urge to sit around and eat all day.

It's the Saturdays that will kill you.

There's a big old Spring Break going on right now --- at MSU, and consequently in Wyandotte. Lots of people home for a whole week, and I'm not one of them. For those of you in the Dotte living it up (and those of you from MSU who are in your respective hometowns) enjoy your week off.

I think I'm going to hit up a granola bar and a rerun of ... well, something. It's all reruns tonight.

Grandma

2005-02-27T00:19:00.000-05:00

Five years ago, doctors in Plainwell, Michigan told us that my grandma had between two days and two weeks to live. They underestimated her.

A couple days ago, they said the same thing. This time they were right. Ruth Riedel, my grandmother, my dad's mother and quite possibly one of the toughest women I've ever met, died Saturday, Feb. 26, 2005. She was 83.

It wasn't a surprise -- her cancer kept coming back. She'd been fighting it off for a while. When she had to leave her home and her land (in which she took great pride) she became the star of the nursing home. She could move so quickly in her wheelchair the staff dubbed her "Hot Rod Ruth," and during her rounds she would chat people up, hearing about their kids and always bragging about her own. If you look carefully, inside many of the rooms at LifeCare Center of Plainwell, you'll see crocheted calendars and crafts. Little gifts from Grandma.

Grandma was, and I don't think anyone will question my saying this, a tough lady. She saw a lot of difficult things in her life, including the murder of a daughter and the loss of two husbands. She raised three boys on limited funds and eternal patience and what she couldn't provide in material wealth she gave them in love and affection, which is more important anyway. When her daughter Dorothy was murdered during a robbery, she and her husband Mike took on the task of raising Dorothy's two kids. They (Bob and Dawn) were the apple of her eye and went on to start their own families, producing great-grandchildren that, not surprisingly, also were the apple of her eye.

Grandma was also a funny woman, sometimes on purpose, sometimes accidentally. She told people "never go near water until you learn how to swim," and talked to her cat, Smokey. She ate puffed rice for breakfast, ham for supper and bananas in between. She held long conversations on the phone during the daytime with her neighbors and friends --- talking about the pharmacy, what the guy up the road was doing, and what was new in each of their families. She sang songs about sticking your feet out the window, the name of her favorite restaurant was "Plum Crazy," and she could kick your ass in any card game. Just name it. She'll beat you.

She was in a wheelchair by the time her 80th birthday rolled around, but that didn't stop her from leaping from her seat every time she saw some long-lost relative who hadn't come to visit in years. She'd dash across the room (as well as an 80-year-old woman can dash, anyway) and sit on a lap or put her arm around someone and order the nearest person with a camera to "take a picture, dammit." And that's OK. It was her birthday, after all.

At times she drove people crazy. Her legendary arguments with her sister, Juanita, were the cornerstone of many a family event. They would start their sentences with phrases like, "Dag nabbit!" and "By God...," but always ended the night as the loving sisters they had been for eight decades.

At other times she reminded us all how lucky we were to have a loving family. When you needed her, for scraped knees, banana cream pie, or just a hug, she was there.

She was a good and extraordinary woman who made it long enough to know her great grandchildren. None of us can ask for anything more from our own lives. I hope I make it as long as she did, and I hope I keep fighting like she did, whether I'm young and raising a family or old and trying to beat cancer.

Funeral arrangements are this week. Visitation is Tuesday from 2 - 8 p.m. and the funeral is Wednesday at 11 a.m. at Winkel Funeral Home in Otsego, Mich.

A visitor!

2005-02-26T08:11:00.000-05:00

My friend Zach Waske is visiting today and we're planning a full day of sightseeing, including the Capitol, the Library of Congress, the National Archives, the Smithsonians and the Holocaust Memorial. That's an ambitious schedule for one day (since each of them could probably take a few days to see in their entirety) so I expect we'll need to save one tomorrow. We've put the Holocaust Memorial last on the list because I've heard it's so well done that by the time you've gone through it you are just emotionally exhausted.

It's nice having a visitor here, especially a history major like Zach who is so fascinated by all D.C. has to offer. Of course, that's not to discourage you NON-history majors from visiting... come one, come all, I say.

Thursday night, my roommate Don (another State Newser) and I had dinner with former MSU President Peter McPherson. It was a good conversation and a lot different talking to him candidly and off the record. Because it WAS off the record, I'm not going to tell you what we talked about, although it wasn't really earth-shattering news or anything. Polite conversation among friends.

I guess the only other point of interest here is that there's snow on the ground and no one knows what to do. People are good to go by now, but on Thursday, when it was *actually* snowing the drivers were acting like morons, everyone was trying to leave work early and people kept asking me, "Is the government still open?" I thought, if this is all it takes for the federal government to close, we've got problems.

We ended up getting about 4 inches or so, which I suppose is significant snowfall, but not worth all the hoopla it got at the time. The theory held by our bureau's secretary (who has lived here all her life) is that D.C.'s population is such a huge conglomeration of people --- from other states, from other countries --- and some of them aren't used to snow, so they freak out. Then all the D.C. residents who ARE used to snow freak out because everyone else is freaking out and they don't want to get hit by the crazy drivers. And then, apparently, they close the federal government. (They didn't, on Thursday, by the way.)

These people would die in a Detroit winter.

It's intense

2005-02-22T23:39:00.000-05:00

The following entry contains language some readers might find objectionable. Discretion is advised. Please note that I am including the language because warnings such as these should be sufficient for adults, and I don't need a government agency telling me whether the expression of my viewpoints is objectionable.

In Iraq, the next car you pass on the street could be the last car you pass on the street. The next stretch of highway you travel could blow up right in front of you. The building to your left could hold a sniper. You just don't know.

You live every day in fear, but you live every day --- getting up, doing your military duty, and hoping you make it to the next morning, when you can start the whole process over again. And sometimes you get shot at. Sometimes grenades come your way. Sometimes cars blow up.

It's not unreasonable, when that happens to react to it. To leap back, to take cover, to return fire, or to swear. Soldiers in combat say many things, among them: Fuck. Shit. Dammit. Goddammit.

I learned a lot from a PBS Frontline special aired tonight that followed a unit of soldiers for one month in south Baghdad. During the trip, one soldier was killed. Those same soldiers who swear so much also cry, as it turns out.

PBS warned some of its affiliates that airing the show uncensored could lead to punitive action from the Federal Communications Commission. Does that mean the FCC is really thinking about doing something? No. Does that mean the FCC will do something? No. But I find it alarming that there's a contingency of people out there who are worried that the truthful portrayal of war could be considered "indecent" or "obscene."

These men are men, but also boys, younger than me in some instances -- the kids who I would've looked out for in the hallway when we were in high school. They're being shot at. They're being blown up. They are dying, and people are worried that they have dirty mouths.

Tonight I and anyone else who was watching got a glimpse inside the combat zone, a serious reality check and a much-needed reminder that regardless of views on foreign policy, the American Soldier -- in Iraq and around the world -- is now and always will be a hero of the highest order.

Didn't take long

2005-02-21T23:35:00.000-05:00

State of the Union ... check.
Interviews with members of Congress ... check.
Museum visits ... check.
Trip inside The White House ... check.
Company of close friends who know everything about you ... ... ... Oh.

Somewhere, not here, there are people who know more about me than my name and my resume. They know what I like to eat, the kinds of movies I like to watch, what I do in my spare time, whether I snore when I sleep and how ticklish I am. They know what I look like when I'm ecstatic, and they know what I look like when I'm devastated.

I'm happy here, I really am. But I miss home. I'm not rocking back and forth in a corner, holding my hands over my head or anything, but I can say with ease that I would give anything for a friendly face right now. One is coming to visit this week, and for that I am beyond thankful, but for those of you who I won't see for a while, please know that I miss you.

The man who loved

2005-02-15T10:48:00.000-05:00

Just another thought on Valentine's Day:

This story has nothing to do with Valentine's Day, but it's about a man who loved, a man who prayed and a man who made a very big difference in the world by doing very simple things.

It's one of the best-written, most uplifting things I've ever read, and anyone with a soul should take in every word.

Single or not, it's a good day

2005-02-14T23:56:00.000-05:00

The line for Godiva Chocolate at Union Station today was long. And by long, I mean from one end of the lobby to the other. The lobby, you should know, is almost as wide as a football field and at least as long.

There have been a lot of anti-Valentine's Day celebrations today -- a radio station in upstate New York offered a contest to win a free divorce today, among others. Some people hate this holiday, because they're unattached romatically, and therefore think they are completely alone.

I'm not going to complain about it being a "Hallmark Holiday," because it's not. It's the feast of Saint Valentine, thank you very much, and whether you believe in sainthood or not, the fact is that there was once a Roman guy named Valentine who died because he refused to renounce his Christian faith, and because his love --- his LOVE --- for God was too great. Shake a stick at that.

I'm also not going to complain about being single, because I'm not. Sure, I'm not in a relationship, but every day I'm surrounded by people who care about me, whether they're here in Washington with me or back at home in Wyandotte and East Lansing, or vacationing on the Georgia Coast (hi, Mom and Dad...). To think any of us walks through this life alone is absurd. Even the most destitute have someone who says a prayer for them.

Valentine's Day is about inside jokes, and smiles shared among friends, and laughter. It's about a hug on a bad day, or a hug on a good day, a phone call in the wee hours of the morning just because, a drink bought over good conversation, a pat on the back, a silent prayer said without anyone knowing, and the idea that maybe, just maybe, there's a world out there that we all can make a little bit better together.

This is about people you see every day but don't know. This is about giving part of your life to other people, not just one other person, although that's OK, too. This is about being gentle with the earth and kind to other people.

There's a whole group of people out there with whom I am quite madly in love, and no card or box of chocolates will ever be able to say so.

Two, in fact, can

2005-02-13T23:30:00.000-05:00

BRUNSWICK, Ga. -- The Twocan Cafe, the only nightspot in a downtown that rolls up its sidewalks at dusk, is where the Georgians come to have a good time. They dance to blues, chat with each other, applaud for birthdays and eat some of the best seafood this side of Savannah.

Ken McComb co-owns the former hotel with his wife, Kimberly. He came here after having a heart attack which he attributes to the stress of running a bar in Atlanta. Brunswick, a small industrial town where paper mill exhaust chokes out the sweet smell of cypress trees, needed Ken's urban cooking as much as Ken needed its rural peace.

In a palm-tree shirt, khaki shorts and loose-fitting sandals, Ken floats from table to table during the night, sometimes serving guests, sometimes sitting down and talking with them, asking customers about their lives and their interests, before even thinking about telling stories about how he drives his boat to work and never had kids, but that's okay, because his dogs take up most of his time and they're just as attention craving anyway. No one who works in any restaurant ever wants to hover. At some places, they take care of that by disappearing and only emerging once or twice (usually when your mouth is full) to say, "Everything OK?" At The Twocan Cafe, Ken and Kimberly avoid hovering by pulling up a chair. Can't hover if they're sitting with you, can they?

Their formula -- whatever it is -- has worked. The restaurant is packed every night, some would say because of the grilled grouper or blackened scallops, or the pasta special, or the entertainment. I think it's because of Ken. I think it's because he makes people feel like they belong when they come to his restaurant, whether they're from Brunswick or Atlanta or Detroit or Hartford. I think it's because he asks them to talk about themselves first, before he tells some crazy story about life in coastal Georgia.

"I never forget anything that happens in my bar," Ken says. The trick, though, is that no one in his bar will ever forget him.

Escape

2005-02-12T12:19:00.000-05:00

ST. SIMONS ISLAND, Ga. -- I am a firm believer that life necessitates a little spontinaeity from time to time, and so I have engaged in a little this weekend. My parents and my aunt and uncle are vacationing together for a month down here in the marshlands, and I am spending 36 hours doing exactly the same thing.

St. Simons Island is very nice --- vacation homes on quiet, tree-covered streets, wedged between the Atlantic Ocean and a series of tidal marshes that stretch miles inland. Dad and I took a walk on the beach and then tonight we're all going out to dinner.

The weather's not too bad either... in the mid-60s. It's not warm enough to go all out with shorts and a T-shirt, but I managed to hike up my sleeves and walk around comfortably.

Back to D.C. tomorrow night with an 8 p.m. flight from Jacksonville, Fla.

Welcome to Washington

2005-02-11T08:46:00.000-05:00

Among the many new things I'm discovering here is the fact that people are very nonchalant about the seriousness of this place. I guess it's the way you have to be to keep sane.

I mentioned in a previous entry about the reporter at the State of the Union who actually said her prayers that we wouldn't get blown up. Last night, a motorcade was coming down the street, and pedestrians were crossing in front of it, like it was no big thing. Where I come from, we'd be too afraid that we'd get tackled or even shot for doing such a thing. We fear the Secret Service --- here, many people just tolerate them.

The most startling thing I've discovered is my "emergency duffel bag." It's a small bag underneath my desk in which there is a gas mask, a chemical suit and some rubber gloves. I asked our bureau secretary what that was all about, and she said it's in case we need to evacuate in the event of a biological or chemical attack. Oh, of course.

I remember...

2005-02-07T23:56:00.000-05:00

... being a reporter. It's been two years, but I remember what it's like, the good and the bad.

I remember feeling like I know absolutely nothing.
I remember feeling nervous with sources on the phone.
I remember worrying about whether people would call me back in time.
I remember checking in constantly with editors.
I remember sitting in on press conferences without any idea of what the issue at hand was.
I remember the rush of spending five minutes preparing for an interview that's six minutes away, having just found out I was doing it about one minute before.
I remember the simultaneous education and agony of having my copy ripped apart.
I remember the soaring feeling that comes when a journalist you respect compliments your work.

This is different than doing payroll.
This is different than talking to angry readers.
This is different than leading the Sunday meeting.

I remember now.

Adams Morgan Part II

2005-02-05T03:30:00.000-05:00

Went out tonight with two other program participants (Eric and Scott) to a couple bars in Adams Morgan. The first, which had a somewhat unmemorable name... something like, "Capital Station?"... featured a great band and nice atmosphere, including a sculpture made entirely from the bent parts of low brass instruments. After that, it was on to a place called "Madam's Organ." That's right... "Madam's Organ" in "Adams Morgan." It's four levels tall and fantastic. The top level was a rooftop bar where we spent most of the evening, sipping beer and talking about political differences, what life is like in our part of the country, study abroad trips, and everything in between.

Adams Morgan

2005-02-04T13:24:00.000-05:00

Whenever I travel, whether it be for a vacation or for a longer stay (such as now, in Washington), one of the highlights is always discovering a place that few tourists know about. In the Adams Morgan neighborhood, I found that place.

It's called "The Diner," a 24-hour restaurant serving breakfast all the time inside an older building with tin ceilings and crown molding. On the menu is the "Diner's Bill of Rights," which includes among other things the premise that "eating out in D.C. should not break the bank." Thank God for that, too.

The Adams Morgan neighborhood itself is worth celebrating. In the 1960s, progressive residents worried about segregation decided to name the place themselves. They combined the name of an all-white elementary school (Adams) with that of an all black elementary school (Morgan) and bestowed it upon a few blocks north of DuPont Circle. The result is a wonderfully diverse neighborhood with residents (and food, too) from every corner of the globe. Ethiopia, India, Ghana, Spain, Mexico, France, Italy... all sorts of cultures represented. Even the buildings have character --- towhouses smacked together, painted bright colors.

Admittedly, we didn't have time to check out the whole place. The rest will come tomorrow night when all of the interns in our program meet at a bar on 18th Street called "The Blue Room," (named after the room in The White House, not that other kind of blue, thanks very much). But for those of you who plan on stopping by D.C., count on a trip to The Diner at least once.

Expectations

2005-02-03T00:42:00.000-05:00

I expected today would be interesting. I expected to meet my new boss face-to-face, to see the office, to fill out some paperwork and get a press pass. All of that happened.

I didn't expect to observe the State of the Union address from a seat overlooking the U.S. House of Representatives chamber, about 100 feet away from the President. But it happened.

The bureau chief had some work to do before he could sit in his assigned seat inside the House chamber, so he let me take his spot until he was done. He ended up taking about 30 minutes. I sat next to a woman named Molly who couldn't have been more than 10 years older than me. As the politicians began filing in, she said to me, "You know, this would really be a prime target for terrorists. Better say your prayers." She's right --- The State of the Union brings together both houses of Congress, the President, the Vice President, the Cabinet (minus one people) and countless other officials and leaders from around the nation and sometimes world. Plus, everyone's watching. What better place to make a statement?

But when she said "Better say your prayers," I thought she was using that as an expression. Right after she said that I looked over and her head was bowed and her hands were clasped. She was actually praying that she didn't get attacked by a terrorist. I have to admit, I didn't bow my head or clasp my hands or even cross myself, but in my head, I asked for a little protection from above, too. It is a different sort of ball game here.

Getting cred

2005-02-02T14:13:00.000-05:00

Stopped by my bureau today to get oriented and make formal introductions. It's located on the 11th floor and has a pretty good view of two streets for a few blocks. It's also a lot cleaner than The State News newsroom, as you can imagine. It's strange to work in an office that doesn't smell like pizza.

After a stop-in at the bureau I headed off to the Capitol to get my credentials. It's a greenish badge with holograms all over it and a less-than-stunning photo of myself. In order to get it, I had to go to the Senate Press Gallery on the third floor of the Capitol. Of course, I didn't know where I was going, so I kept asking people directions, including one guy who had a "New Yorker" ID badge on. Hm... someone from The New Yorker gave me directions. Well, that's good I suppose. Tonight is The State of the Union address, and I'm anxious to see how that goes. It's possible I might find some place to observe the reporters in action on it. I also offered any help I could provide to my bureau, but seeing as I haven't officially started yet, I'm not sure how useful I could be.

People in D.C. seem to like to sing. One guy was sitting in the food court at Union Station with headphones on, singing at the top of his lungs. Think "American Idol" style. Then, on the Metro ride home, some guy got up, walked to the middle of the train car and began singing about the blood of Jesus. When he was done, he simply said, "Thank you, you all have a nice day," and then exited at the next stop.

A trip to D.C. and an unsettling survey

2005-02-01T21:45:00.000-05:00

Roommate Kim and I made our first venture into the city today. It only takes about 30 minutes via the Metro. We walked around from the White House to the Washington Monument and over to the Smithsonians before grabbing a quick bite at Union Station and heading home. Don arrives on Thursday.

Now, on to the real news of the day...

... in 1988, the U.S. Supreme Court issued a decision in the case of the Hazelwood School District v. Kuhlmeier, which gave public high school officials greater power to censor student newspapers. The idea was that a high school newspaper is for educational purposes and that the school district is effectively the newspaper's "publisher," therefore has the authority to exercise editorial control.

But here's the problem: In a recent survey, at least one in three high school students said the First Amendment goes to far, and about 25 percent feel student publications should be censored. Now, I understand that high school atmospheres are different, and that you have an educational community to preserve, and that you have to take into consideration the developmental age and maturity level of your readership. But censorship in high school teaches people that censorship in the real world is OK. It teaches them that newspapers should do their jobs just so long as nobody's offended. It teaches them that the First Amendment doesn't apply to things with which you disagree.

The freedom I have to do my job is what helps give you the freedom to live your life. It's what holds your public officials accountable for their actions, good or bad. It's how you know what's going on every day. There are countries where the press shuts up if the government tells it to. There are countries where public officials aren't held accountable. Cuba's a good example. So is China.

People are always going to think the press is useless or overly free. I know that, I'm not stupid. I blame careless members of my profession who choose to spend more time on "Michael Jackson shockers!" (as one story I saw today put it) than on what's really affecting our lives. I blame it on anyone who ever has used their journalistic freedoms for frivolous or self-serving purposes. I blame it on people who have blurred the lines between news and entertainment or worse, news and commerce. And I blame the Hazelwood decision for raising a generation of high school students (who will be come college students and then will become major world decision makers) in a world where censorship is OK and offensive but important messages are squashed.

Out and about

2005-01-31T14:43:00.000-05:00

In Michigan, we're used to madness behind the wheel of a car. Blame it on the drivers. We weave in and out of traffic, signal after we've begun our lane change and follow too closely (our hallmark maneuver if you ask me).

So I thought, growing up as a Detroit driver, that I'd have no problem on the mean streets of the Washington suburbs. Oops.

In just a few short hours exploring today, I was honked at twice, flipped off and, I'm sure, called many many names. The problem here isn't the drivers (who are rather responsible, actually) but the roads. They intersect at strange obtuse angles, so you're never sure if you're turning left or going straight. You cut someone off in a last-ditch attempt to get into the left lane only to discover that all SIX lanes of traffic are allowed to turn left. And there are so many cars here. So many. Sure, Detroit's the motor city, but only because everything is still on the assembly line. Our roads back home are clear.

And just when you think "Well, no problem, I'll come back the way I came," ... NO! Do Not Enter.

Thank God for the Metro.

Here.

2005-01-31T01:52:00.000-05:00

OK... so I have a lot of journals. If you're used to reading my stuff on livejournal or diaryland, you still will from time to time, but I have decided to create a journal just for my D.C. experience.

I've thrown my stuff into the apartment here in Silver Spring (and, obviously, hooked up my computer). I don't have a whole lot to report, honestly, as I've only seen this place by night.

The drive in was beautiful. If you ever get the chance to cruise through the Maryland panhandle, do it. Take US-219 from Somerset, Pa., to I-68 and head east. If you do it at sunset, the mountains will be dark, except for their peaks which tonight caught the sunset just perfectly. It was absolutely amazing and I drifted lanes once because I was too busy sightseeing to drive. (So be careful, too.)

Tomorrow's missions: Put air in tire, get gas, get a cheapo desk (probably a card table) and a cheapo chair. Maybe go into D.C., just to do it.