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fruchtmarks

Posted by EXIT265C on March 7, 2011
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I didn’t take any real pictures in New York because I decided I didn’t feel like lugging a Canon 10D around. I would buy a point and shoot but I’ve broken/lost three of them since 2005. The last one was a Christmas present I took early and dropped before Christmas.

Anyway,
The trip started late. I didn’t leave work until about 7 p.m. Thursday and I was pretty angry when I left because I was still there at 7 p.m. As I said once before, we have a small staff so anyone leaving is a little rough. I stopped scheduling things and I had something lined up to write but the story fell through and me not scheduling things lead to a minor problem. I wish we had more people so we had people to back us up but Steve Jobs had to fight for a day off in the first days of Apple, right?

That’s all I’ll say about work because this is neither the time nor the place beyond noting that my newsroom is amazing at what it can do given what it has and I really need to think of a way to show them how awesome I think they are. I wish I made enough money to schedule a private event for them or something. Perhaps if I can get my novel published. I should start round two of researching agents. It hasn’t been six weeks yet but I’m assuming the last query that went out (the one that also has the first two chapters) isn’t going to respond.

But I digress.

We got to Norfolk in enough time to watch &#8220Jersey Shore,&#8221 which was awesome. Bill and I are obsessed with it because 1) we have spent far to much time in New Jersey (although we both hate the state) 2) We know someone who knows someone on the show and 3) We enjoy commenting on how awful they are.

The following day, we set out. We made decent time and, after we got settled, went to the hotel bar for happy hour then caught a cab to the PATH station in Newark. You see, we were planned to be in Brooklyn but that also fell through and I had to book a hotel room at the last second. We later found out that Karen could have gotten us a free room at the Marriott.

I picked the hotel because I thought it was one I stayed at before. I was at the one next to it. The one were we didn’t have to pay for parking.

The cab ride to the PATH was about $25 one way. The station was three miles away. The hotel was situated in a way that it would have been impossible to walk to it.

When we got into the city, we went to McSorley’s, which has a strong connection to my fraternity. Afterward, my grand little brother Matt, who lives in Brooklyn, showed up and he took us bar hopping. I spent too much and had too much. But I was on vacation, damn it. I hadn’t had any real days off since Mardi Gras. Sure, this was only a four-day weekend and one of the days was a comp day and not a vacation but I left the state purely for pleasure for the first time in a a bit.

The next day, I saw Ren&#233e for the first time in a while and we had brunch while Bill, Karen, Brandon and Dan supposedly went sightseeing. Dan arrived via the Chinatown bus the night before and I drove into the city that day because I figured it would be cheaper than the cab + PATH (it was). After I ate something, my body realized that I partied the night before but I had to rally. I had to rally.

I met up with the group in Central Park near Strawberry Fields. They had seen next to nothing because Bill wasn’t as good as getting around the city as he thought. We then went to a couple nearby landmarks, including Times Square and then headed close to my car for dinner. I was still trying to hold it together and it was a good thing that we sat down and ate and drank (water in my case) when we did. After that, I felt better, although I was a bit tired, and I drove them through Manhattan some more.

I love driving in Manhattan. Seriously. It is my favorite thing to do. I think I love the anarchy the most. It’s like every traffic rule is suspended and the name of the game is don’t hit anyone else because then you can’t get to your destination on time. Anyone driving in Manhattan is obviously very important and has somewhere to go so, if you cut off that limo, that limo isn’t going to hit you and vice versa. To be perfectly honest, I feel traffic runs smoother there than Mercury Boulevard in Hampton some late nights when you almost can hit cruise control. Everyone in my car noted how I go in a completely different driving mode and I sometimes wish I could bring that to Richmond but I’d probably get eight tickets. Also, I can’t blast a Spanish-language radio station playing the most ludicrously festive-sounding music ever in the middle of Richmond either.

I started that as we came in through the Holland Tunnel and rode up the West Side till upper Riverside Drive because I always park up there due to the lack of parking meters and the ample parking. (Also, my car tends to be where I left it and intact.) I think it was Karen who asked why we had to play Latin music and my response was to turn it up more.

On the way back, I switched to a DJ mix of the top 40 Billboard songs this week (which made some of them tolerable) as I cut down 125th so Brandon could see the Apollo then took Park down to Grand Central. There was construction inside the Helmsley Building so I couldn’t drive through it and had to cut over to Lexington to 21th then worked our way back into the Holland Tunnel.

The next day, yesterday, was a doozy. We left early and dropped Dan off at Newark Penn Station. As soon as we got back on the Turnpike, he called because the PATH wasn’t running till 6 p.m. Instead of telling him of all the options he had to get back, I turned around and got him. It’s not easy to get back into the Holland Tunnel from Penn Station so I took the Lincoln Tunnel. I fought my way over to Park and then cut over to Third at Union Square so I could stay on the Bowery, since Dan’s bus dropped him off at Bowery and Canal.

At this point, Karen wanted coffee and we all wanted food. I figured it would be impossible to park in downtown so I hopped on the Brooklyn Bridge and hoped we’d find parking. We did not. Three hours later, we were finally back on Route 1 heading back toward Virginia. In a binding rainstorm. I finally stopped in Rahway, N.J. and then we booked it from there. I took Route 1 to 95 in Trenton and then got on 13 in Wilmington, Del. I did this partially because of our $50+ cab rides Friday night.

&#8220New Jersey got enough of our money&#8221 I said when someone wondered why we were in Philadelphia.

Eleven hours later, we got back to Norfolk. I had hoped to be in my bed last night and putter around Richmond today. Instead, I got back in the afternoon and I’ve been sitting in my room in the dark for the past three hours or so after making spaghetti for dinner because that was quick.

I enjoyed myself but I’m not ready to go back to work tomorrow. I’m considering showing up around noon or so and just going to the council meeting. Katy suggested that so I think I will.

Actually, I am ready to go back to work. I needed the break. I didn’t fully get away. I got a call from a city official and a few texts from a city resident and a couple from the newsroom. I’m a little pissed about that but I’ve come to the realization that I can’t fully go on vacation while I am here. I can’t afford it. Like I said before, our staff is small and being plugged into work 24-hours a day sometimes is a sacrifice we’ll have to make if we want, at some point, there to be a larger staff so we can take a breather.

Speaking of breathers, I still have vacation days left. I think, especially since Bill will be off to the Army next month, I’m going to have at least one staycation in Richmond. If I get a nice book advance (or, suddenly, I get paid $10,000 or so more a year because corporate is feeling generous), in the next two years, Bill and I are going to Norway on an extended vacation. Yes, Norway. Longyearbyen to be exact. We’re going in summer and who knows what will happen. I hope whatever it is involves Norwegian girls. Or tourist girls. We feel it will be an awful trip but that’s why we want to go. I don’t know how Bill exactly came up with the northernmost town of over 1,000 people, which should still have snow on the ground in July as, if we’re lucky, it will get up to 47. But I’m all for it. Now that will be the blog entry to wait for when we get back. Even if something happens to me or him before 2013, one of us still has to go. This has to happen. I mean, it’s fucking Longyearbyen, Norway during the midnight sun. Ha, I wrote &#8220midnight suck&#8221 the first time around. I am anticipating this even more now. I hope I remember to title the opening entry of that voyage as &#8220midnight suck.&#8221

I’ll be able to drive a snowmobile there. I wonder if that will top driving in Manhattan. Probably not..

assessment

Posted by EXIT265C on March 3, 2011
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Every now and then, I assess this blog and wonder hat a current or future employer would say. I curse a lot. Well, la dee dah.

I mean, if you go back, I mention being drunk but I’m over 21 and I haven’t had any sordid stories in a while because I don’t do lines of coke then drink half a bottle of jager then drive off into the desert to do unspeakable things to a 16-year-old. Because I’m not Charlie Sheen. I’m going to look back at this entry like 15 years from now and be like &#8220Why did I mention Charlie Sheen?&#8221

Anyway, the rant about work was in bad form but I’m letting it stay. It shows what we’re dealing with. Including me, the newsroom staff is five. You could say six since we have someone doing most of our inside pages. That a ludicrously small number for the amount of work we do. We sometimes wonder how we even get a newspaper out at all. That said, we beat ourselves up a bit when we make a mistake. We freak out when there’s a line on a page that is a pica or so in the wrong direction. And our readers aren’t going to care, let alone know what a pica is. To quote one of my college editors in chief, I don’t know what a pica is but I know it when I see it.

Making a mistake everyone notices is worse because we know it. So we’re self flagellating and then the phone calls begin and our weeping and gnashing of teeth reaches a breaking point and I want to yell that they have no idea how underpowered we are and, if we gave just 100 percent like we did three years ago, they’d have what they had then.

This job is overwhelming and you have to set aside an outrageous amount of time out of one’s personal life so it looks like a real newspaper. We were overwhelmed. I’m tired from blowing all my vacation days at once after working for over two years straight and I’m very glad to have four days off starting tomorrow because I’m now using those days wisely. It’s great to have a full week off but that means that weeks and weeks will go by before you can take time off again.

We were overwhelmed and this is the only place I can rant. Some of corporate might be embarrassed but it’s not like I hate my job or I’m the one being rude to customers on the phone.

To be honest, I’ve been finding this boring as of late. I mean, I’m slowly trying to get my novel an agent and I take pictures of architecture. If I were an employer looking at me, I wouldn’t freak out about this. If you go way, way back I’d be concerned but I was fresh out of college and our online lives follow us forever. If someone has a problem with an unemployed drunken 22 year old blogging about being a unemployed drunken 22 year old, you’re the one with issues because that was six years ago. I’ve never written anything with any true bias and I don’t do anything aggrievedly illegal. I mean, I’m probably breaking some law right now typing this while sitting on my bed and playing music I legally purchased and put on my phone.

I just thought of this because of the whole someone trying to say I bashed the company last year on Facebook/on my blog and that never happened. I mean, I ranted in a status but not a lot of people can see that and it was about some people still not realizing that we print three days a week.

Speaking of work, although I’m about to take a vacation day, I’m 12 hours over for this pay period. I do need to go in today and run some errands before leaving so I should go do that.

Rambling here felt good, though. I need to get back into writing here. And making these more cohesive when I do.

Anyway, long story short, I still feel this is OK. But, if I ever get out of journalism fully and don’t have a job where having some sort of super needing to be on the level caveats, I have some things I want to say.

For now, I’ll settle with writing editorials.

of weddings

Posted by EXIT265C on October 31, 2010
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A few weeks ago, I went to a wedding where I petted a goat.

The first wedding I went to was of my friend Beth Beck (I have always called her by her first and last name and told her I will call her Beth Beck regardless of her being married) and my fraternity brother Snuggles (I have never called him by his real name nor shall I ever).

It was held at a farm in Virginia Beach and, because we were curious, Bill and I looked up the farm online. We discovered there was a petting zoo and pony rides. I decided that I wanted to ride a pony so we left early.

We just missed the pony rides but we went to the petting zoo. We also saw that there was a cornhole tournament going on in the front of the farm. We figured this would end up being one of the best weddings ever. It was. The wedding was amazing because so many cool people were involved. I wish I took photos.

I also wish I didn’t accidentally touch an electric fence. Don’t do that. Trust me.

I also became acquainted with someone really, really cool there. I’ll leave it at that for now. Let’s begin FAIL-watch.

Anyway, nothing about the next wedding was fail. Because I saw it coming.


Love beginning to blossom in 2005 after pure hatred

I totally called it back then in the Captain’s Log office: Amber and Sean.

I remembered the camera this time. I took hundreds of photos but these are my favorites.

As I said with an earlier entry, it is 2010. If your computer cannot handle there being a ton of photos in this entry, you really need to consider getting a new computer.

That said, here are all the funs.


Amber and her totally awesome journalist dad


Sean and his mom


Sean and Amber went from punches flying to sparks flying

entering as a sonny clapp cover plays

Posted by EXIT265C on June 7, 2010
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Everyone has written poems in adolescence; true poets destroy them, bad poets publish them

— Umberto Eco

I once read that, at one point in the 1980s, anyone who was anyone had an Umberto Eco book on a coffee table, a giant tome of about 600 pages, perhaps handsomely bound and, of course, unread. &#8220The Name of the Rose&#8221 was once dubbed &#8220the greatest story never read.&#8221

I have three Eco novels under my belt. In general, if someone asks me to suggest a novel, I bring up &#8220The Name of the Rose&#8221 or &#8220The Island of the Day Before.&#8221 Although Eco is a bit dense, I have faith in my friends.

I just finished &#8220Foucault’s Pendulum,&#8221 a novel much like the previous two I have ingested: full of history from the Middle Ages to the 1700s or so, a time when history was equal parts fact and fiction, a time when there was a full press for an ultimate truth, one that somehow was lost between the resurrection and the rise of the first pope in Rome.

&#8220Foucault’s Pendulum&#8221 had been dubbed &#8220the thinking person’s ‘Da Vinci Code.’&#8221 Eco, of course dismissed that, saying Dan Brown was one of his characters. In &#8220Foucault’s Pendulum,&#8221 people eventually conjure up a vast conspiracy and are soon consumed by it. If you make a wild enough conjecture, people will believe you. And if you try to tell them it’s bullshit, the more they believe you hold some great secret because if you say it’s bullshit, it has to be true that there’s something. The novel spells that out and it postulates that perhaps what the novel is saying is true but it can’t possibly be true because it’s fiction but that’s what Eco wants you to believe.

And then you go mad.

Despite all of the themes and mystery and intrigue of &#8220Foucault’s Pendulum,&#8221 the plot itself isn’t what truly stood out to me but, in a way, it did. Instead, it is the line at the beginning of the entry, one attributed to the narrator after it is revealed that he may be unreliable in his account of the previous 600 pages. It made me think of the things I destroyed in the past year.

At one point last summer, I opened a cabinet that had several bound books, the kind serious people write journals in. Not frilly, simple lock, teenage-girl diaries. The ones used by professional life bloggers before blogs existed. The ones used by people who think their lives are almost interesting enough to deserve being in print but, since it is ongoing, it can’t be printed yet. We’ll just settle for this handsomely bound book for now.

I didn’t write my memoirs in them, as my mom thought I was doing. That didn’t happen till June 1, 2004. And for some reason you’re still reading it six years later.

Those books contained novels.

* * *

When I was in third grade, we were presented with a writing exercise: What Would You Do if You Had a Time Machine? For some reason, the answer for me was swift and logical: open a detective agency. To me, it made sense to use the space-time continuum for the most noble of purposes: to not only solve crime but prevent it from happening. Of course, that had to come with rules. I immediately set out to make them and research what some of them already were.

I think that is what began my secret love of physics. Pity that my knowledge of math turns to shit just shy of calculus.

Of course, I started with true reference materials. The Hampton Public Library had a generously-sized reference section in the children’s department. I read every dumbed-down book that touched on time travel they had. The rules continued to change. I continued to write as I got older. I refined the process as my understanding grew. Of course, as with every foray into science by a novice, the research dabbled a bit into the occult. Eventually, I had a grand scheme that the characters in my novel were on a holy mission to ensure certain things happened to preserve the very fabric of the universe.

As I grew older, the research returned to the science section of the library. I was in middle school. I was now reading upstairs in the adult-level books. The plot was becoming messy; the conjectured facts of time travel contradictory. The Time Machine Detective Agency could only go back but so far in time and for a limited time because some things cannot be changed. What about the future? Is it possible for them to die in not their present?

This became my secret obsession. In ninth grade I reached a conclusion: time travel was probable but not possible. I stopped writing. The attempts to create the true version of that book, the thing I devoted so much time to for reasons I did not know, went into the cupboard. I wasted too much time and energy on it to just throw it away. Much like one of the characters in &#8220Foucault’s Pendulum,&#8221 I was too cynical to keep them, too weak to chuck them out.

Last year, I chucked them out.

Without any hesitation, years of what led me to this entry, to my diploma, to being a few feet from a copy of the newspaper I not only write but of which am second in charge headed to the landfill on Big Bethel Road. I didn’t even want them recycled. I wanted them to decompose, to return to the earth, to become a part of the park that mountain of trash at the northern end of my hometown will eventually become. Those pages need not be reconstituted to receive ink again. If I were not at my mom’s house and had a suitable place in Richmond, I would have burned them.

Looking back, I wonder what spurred the quest, the desire to construct some sort of way to do something with time travel if it were possible. In my book, it arrived literally as deus ex machina &#8212 in later drafts, God indirectly delivered the machine, His machine.

The main characters in &#8220Foucault’s Pendulum&#8221 wanted to one-up the people who were trying to construct a truth, uncover some great secret of the universe. What was I trying to do?

I think that is what ended the quest. I could not answer that question. It may have been why I had to have one of my English teachers in high school more or less grab me by the shoulders and tell me she could not understand why I did not understand I was an English major and I should not take up the offer to go to a business school.

Especially since I was writing again.

* * *

I had yet another aimless literary attempt. Some of you have seen it. It was less science fiction but it was in the realm of the fantastic. Eventually, I chucked all of the magic fiction bits out and started to revise it. The story fell apart. The pointlessness revealed itself again. It was the magic that gave the illusion of the plot. It don’t know when I deleted it. It is gone. Vestiges of it still float around the universe. I shared it to too many before I knew it was garbage. But some of the characters endured. Some of them even have connections to TMDA. There is a direct line from third grade to the first draft of a novel I first published in this very blog, the draft of which is awaiting me to get past Chapter Five of the final edit, the one that I declared was the novel I had been trying to write.

And I wonder again: what does it all mean? Can I say I became a true writer with the destruction of that tripe? I get published twice a fucking week. The previous entry, in a slightly edited form is spread out across two issues of a newspaper. Why am I still wondering? I’ve been thanked for my articles. I have seen them posted prominently. I have been told in certain words that they were shit and it is satisfying to get an award for that shit or remember that I’m still going to work and getting paid to write that shit tomorrow so fuck you.

I guess I’m looking for permanence, for legacy. Most journalists have a manuscript hidden somewhere. We realize that a puppy will piss on our words by the end of the week. A book lets you know it’s not all in vain. Who has their bird shit on a book when they’re done reading it? The medium is changing but you get the idea.

I’m stalling. Despite what I have done, I’ve stalled in far too many things in my life. I do not want to become another Jacopo Belbo.

The question isn’t what does it all mean. The question is what am I waiting for.

&#8220sometimes you have to cup it … it’s a compliment&#8221

Posted by EXIT265C on May 10, 2010
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Before I get back to the entries I should have made during election season, let’s talk about this weekend.

On Friday, one of my fraternity brothers, Butler, and his DJ partner Chris came down for First Fridays and to meet the people who run Turnstyle/host the Turnstyle radio show on WRIR to see about getting a guest DJ spot. The night went well. How well? I created a new fan of Richmond out of Butler:

&#8220I don’t want to go back to Northern Virginia.&#8221

We walked around Broad Street, listened to music, saw the fire show at Gallery 5, drank bourbon, went to Third Street diner and had a mini party in my backyard. It made me love my life even more. My adulthood is living in an incredible city and, every now and then, my friends come to visit and I have a great time showing them why I love RVA so much.

Butler mentioned that he had free tickets to Kings Dominion so we made plans to get up early to hear No BS play at 7:30 a.m. then head out for roller coaster action.

We got up at 7 but were not functional till about 11. It was disappointing because I missed the last No BS concert because I was double booked that weekend (I was double triple booked this weekend and I’m still working on fixing that). We eventually got to the theme park and got to ride the newest coaster. It’s Dale-Earnhardt-themed. You read right. Virginia has a NASCAR roller coaster. Because we are a southern state.

The ride was awesome but Kings Dominion had a lot of rides down. Their new owners suck. At least we have two theme parks in this state and I’m equidistant to both. Busch Gardens for the win.

After that disappointing time in Hanover County, it was time for the part. Oh geez, the party. I had to call my mom to let her know I’ll make up not being there today by leaving work early Monday and coming in late Tuesday. At some point the night stopped making sense. There was beer pong. There were shots. There were youtube videos. I was up on and off until 7 p.m. today. When I finally came downstairs, I saw a bicycle in the living room. This bicycle.

Collectively, we have a vague idea of how this came to be in our living room but Shaunelle and I have decided not to talk about it. She has no idea how awesome she is.

So here we are: midnight. We have more dirty dishes that then dishwasher can handle. The floor is sticky in some places. I need to be at work in six hours. I’m going to be on the road to my mom’s in about 12. The thought of us having a net gain of booze once again makes me ill. I have an internal debate I wish I could throw out to my friends here but I don’t do friends only entries anymore. There’s a fucking bike in my living room. This weekend was epic. Epic. Although I’m a fan of &#8220work hard, party harder,&#8221 I can’t do this again for a while. I think anyone who suggests drinking in this house in the neighborhood of Chimborazo this week is getting kicked out.

No BS! Brass gives more than hot jams at the Camel

Posted by EXIT265C on December 19, 2009
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Originally published in the Dec. 18, 2009 issue of my newspaper, which holds the copyright. Since I’m my boss and I operate this site at a loss, I give myself permission to republish this article. I was going to add more but I left that notebook 25 miles away and we kinda have a snowstorm.

The first time I saw the Richmond-based No BS! Brass in 2006, I approached the band leader and one of the founders, Reggie Pace.

“Remember when you said you wanted to be in a band?” I asked.

“Remember when you said you wanted to be published,” he replied.

Nearly four years later, No BS! Brass is over 10 men who blow any preconceived notions of what a group made only of trombones, trumpets, a tuba, a saxophone and drums can do. It has won accolades such as the Theresa Pollack Award for Excellence in the Arts and several “best of” lists in the greater Richmond area.

After getting two albums, “Where is Stefan?” and “Alive in Richmond,” under its belt and returning from a tour of the East Coast, No BS! sought to do more for the community than constantly treating ears to jazz, funk and even Led Zeppelin. Last weekend marked the first No BS! Brass Canned Food and Coat Drive at the Camel, a restaurant on Broad Street west of the Virginia Commonwealth University campus. The proceeds went to the Central Virginia Food Bank and Goodwill.

“I wanted to do it,” Pace said. “Since we were doing a show here in December, I was like we should do a charity drive.”

I’ve known Reggie since sixth grade and I can recall when we had a sampling of elective courses. He made his decision of what he wanted to do then. Fast forward to post-graduation life at VCU and you find him and drummer Lance Koehler forming the band in early 2006. I still find it funny that the band began at about the same time I began my career in writing. Reggie and I have been more or less growing up together since 1994; I guess there’s no reason to stop now.

The two sets were divided among new songs from their upcoming third album, older jams and, of course, Christmas tunes. Along with opening band High Noon, consisting of high school students, the house was brought down. It wasn’t long before both the donation area, the Camel and, as Reggie put it, “the karma bank” were full.

TWENTY-THREE MORE PHOTOS

dispatches from 23669

Posted by EXIT265C on November 29, 2009
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I discovered that I’m back down to my elementary school weight of between 145 and 150 pounds. Yes, I was 145 pounds in elementary school. And barely five feet tall. There aren’t many pictures me between first grade and that whole puberty thing. It held steady after I grew into my weight but I had been creeping toward 200 up until last year. I had told Fred that I would start going to gym with him when those pants fit and I nearly had to keep my word. A combo of cooking my own food, walking more since I live in Richmond and not being able to eat solid foods for about a month got me down to about 148. It probably won’t last long since I haven’t taken a true walk in the city since moving out of Forest Hill. I’ve also been too lazy to go grocery shopping lately, which has led to living off doughnuts, ice cream and Hardee’s for about two weeks (the Hardee’s is the result of it being the closest fast food place to work).

My mom bought a Wii. She says it’s for the grandkids but she played Wii Sports for a very long time Friday[?] I’ve lost track of time since I have been off work since about noon Wednesday and this 4.5-day weekend has been the longest stretch I haven’t worked that didn’t involve burying my grandmother since January 2008. You have no idea how amazing I feel to be away from work for so long. I have to get back to the grind Sunday afternoon but I’m more ready for it.

Thanksgiving was fucking delicious. I ate four plates at dinner, hence me probably regaining all of the weight I’ve lost in the past year in short order. I baked a cake. I usually don’t eat cake. There isn’t much cake left. That spice cake with coconut pecan icing was the best cake I have ever had. The only thing that could have made it better would have been if I put rum in it. A lot of rum.

I tried to take a new picture of the Interstate 664 viaduct for the fifth anniversary of this site. I even had the good camera with me. The only problem was that, to get the original shot, I had to park my car a few blocks away and walk. That’s a piece of cake with a point-and-shoot and, although it’s on the border between the bad part of Newport News and the worst part of Newport News, I wasn’t that afraid at the time. Either Hampton Roads has gotten more sketch or I’ve gotten more paranoid. I was more uncomfortable with my surroundings at home than I ever am in Richmond. I felt like a sitting duck with that SLR. I forgot to adjust the ISO and shutter speed. It wasn’t in focus. I was flawless in where I was standing (it nearly matched where I was in the original photo. If I was calmer, the shot would have been nailed. There are a few things wrong with the original photo that I’ve always wanted to fix. If you remember how the header looked over the years, it took having Photoshop and major surgery to get it to look decent.

I went to Marker 20 and the Taphouse in downtown Hampton Friday night. Two of my groups of friends showed up and they clashed. It wasn’t horrible but they clashed. I also saw a few people from high school I haven’t seen in years. Some of them for good reason. That always happens when I go downtown after dark. You can tell which ones didn’t leave the city after graduating. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that but, after the spell Hampton had on me finally broke this year, I always wonder why on earth anyone would still want to be there. I met someone from Hampton Saturday night and we talked about things from the past. Yeah, it was fun growing up but then you grow up. I guess it depends on what your friends do. I have next to no one to hang out with when I stay on the Peninsula and my brothers are out of town. It’s still so weird because I grew up there and went to college 10 miles away and hated central Virginia SO MUCH when I first got here.

My mom is getting increasingly serious about moving yet again. She goes through a cycle of that every now and then. She’ll be 60 next year, though and has noticed that she can’t really run up the stairs like she used to. She’s afraid that the stairs are going to be a problem soon. I’m not looking forward to going through all the stuff to see what should be kept or trashed, especially in my old bedroom. I got rid of the stuff that didn’t belong to me in there a couple years ago but now there’s the crap that does that I either didn’t feel like taking to Richmond or don’t need but didn’t throw away for whatever reason. Overall, there is nearly 40 years of junk in that house. No bueno.

I still can’t believe that I drove around nearly the entire city and didn’t really miss it. I have a little over 22 years of memories in 23669 and 23606 combined. Seeing a Hampton city limits sign used to be exciting for me. I guess it’s because I know the Hampton I know and remember is gone. Blaine, Firth, Leah, Falyn, Jim and I aren’t going to hang out in the former Radisson parking garage anymore. Mandy and I aren’t going to loiter at the Willow Oaks Shopping Center. I’m not spending all of Saturday morning and afternoon wandering around with my mom. I’m not camping out at Grandview or wandering around Coliseum Mall or running around Gosnold’s Hope Park or commenting on how poorly Gosnold Hall smells or drinking illegally in Barclay or having hungover Plaza Azteca or galloping across the Great Lawn banging two halves of a coconut together. But I have continuity. I can ride up to DC and hang out with friends from as far back as elementary school. I can play Scrabble with someone in Kansas. I can go 200 feet downhill to find that a chunk of my fraternity and my friends nearly taking over a bar.

Driving past those places of my youth reminded me why I have everyone I do and that I don’t need to go back there to have them. Yeah, you lose people along the way but we can’t expect things to last forever

You can’t go home again.
Why would anyone want to?

election day/the generator, continued

Posted by EXIT265C on November 4, 2009
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Last year this time, I wasn’t sure if I would be a reporter when Election Day rolled around again. At the time, I very unofficially had my current job and my other option was to go back to college and figure out how to pay for it and everything else later. But, deep down, I knew I wasn’t going to leave the industry just yet. There will come a time when an opportunity arises and I’ll walk away. It’s not that I don’t have the heart for it but it’s that I’m the last of a dying breed. Although, right now, I’m reading a Twitter feed and a Facebook feed and have been running this Web log for five years, I wasn’t taught in the ways of the the not-sure-what-we’re-evolving-into 21st-century newsroom. And writing and managing a twice weekly isn’t helping. I don’t have the time to write as I’d like because I need to manage and I can’t manage as I’d like because I need to write. Of course everyone who calls about something doesn’t realize that when I don’t end up at an event or something doesn’t run when they expect it or it takes a day or two for me to even remember that the person called.

For example, I was barely in the office today because it was Election Day. Tuesday afternoons are generally when I start editing things for Friday’s paper. Then, on top of election coverage, we had someone threaten to jump off a bridge. I literally did not have the time to find out what happened with that tonight. The polls were about to close.

For the third election in a row, I knew who the victors would be. You sometimes pick up on those during campaign coverage. For the third election in a row, I picked the correct campaign party to attend. For the third election in a row, I was surrounded the joy I could not partake in. I sometimes miss not being able to cheer on a candidate openly or criticize a government policy because I do not believe it is right. You know, be a normal citizen. The first time I was a normal citizen in the comfort of my own home since graduating from college was trying to get something done about the generator. it’s part of the reason why I knew I could not live in the Tri-Cities. I can turn off being a journalist here. Well, I can’t fully turn it off but I can ignore sirens in the background, stagger through the Fan and buy frickin’ groceries without being the Man from the Newspaper.

I guess, on a smaller scale, I know how some people who are always in the public eye feel.

I’d love to join a cause or protest or openly talk about my political beliefs one day. Then again, I don’t want my personal life to cast everything I did in journalism in a different light. I probably say too much here and on Facebook and on Twitter already. I guess, overall, they will always be some things I just can’t and won’t talk about much like some people who had top military clearance won’t say a word about anything despite years and years of not being in the loop.

To be honest, I don’t see how journalists can live in the communities they cover. If things worked out differently last year, I probably would have been working in and covering Hopewell. It would have driven me crazy just because I couldn’t do anything. I’d live in a house owned by a delegate down the street from a police officer, shop at places that advertise with us and some that did not, come to an election where I would have to continually cover a candidate that I hoped would lose with ever fiber of my being and so on and so forth. I feel it would just be a tangled web that could only end with a real or perceived bias. I just need anyone who wins an election to talk to me not prosecute crimes against me unless something happens to me on the clock. I can’t just say, &#8220Hey, Chief Tunstall, could you run over to the house next door and see if they have a fire hazard in the backyard?&#8221

Then again, in cases like that, perhaps it could be a good thing. Maybe that generator saga wouldn’t have gone on for so long. But, despite getting something done, that would be bordering on pulling a favor from a source. And I don’t approve of that.

I do approve of the red condemnation sticker on that house tonight. I guess they didn’t get the utilities turned back on, which I find to be ridiculous considering their Halloween decorations. That also means they would still have no water and no electricity at this very moment. There would be a gas-powered generator still running on the wooden back deck of a 100-year-old house. Or a fire. Or a fire later in the year when something else got cut off and it got cold in there. I did have a pull a favor to get the city over there but at least it wasn’t pulling a favor with the city.

Again, I wish it didn’t have to come to this but what if that house caught fire? What if they got carbon monoxide poisoning? What if, as annoying as the noise and my thoughts of danger and illegality, I hoped someone else would call because it it would erode my objectivity or the owner was an advertiser or someone I needed to get certain aspects of the newspaper done? What if I sat here and did nothing until something horrible happened in that house with children in it?

Being a journalist is a complicated thing.

But, if I didn’t constantly make my life complicated, who would read this damn thing?

the generator (UPDATED WITH LINK)

Posted by EXIT265C on October 29, 2009
Posted in: Uncategorized. Tagged: , , , . 2 comments

LINK TO THE STORY HERE

If you’re reading this, you’ve been following this story in 140-character chunks on Twitter and/or Facebook since Oct. 18. Or you actually read this on a constantly basis. Anyways, I’ll spare the introductions.

I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors because I did not proofread this and I am very, very tired.

When I got back from my misadventures in Atlantic City, I came home to a loud humming noise. Really loud. Like not able to get a full night’s sleep loud. It sounded like a generator but I didn’t know for sure. A few of my roommates and I discussed it and wondered where it was coming from. That was the end of it. We figured it would be gone in a day or two after whatever electrical work somewhere was done.

It didn’t go anywhere.

The hum became a constant companion. It had many variations, to the point that we started naming them. It was a constant drone that changed in pitch and intensity as a piece of machinery not designed to run for days on end nonstop did so. We gave the people who had the confirmed generator the benefit of the doubt. We griped about it to ourselves or through social networking and that was it.

Then, after a night meeting and having to be at work at 6:30 a.m. to put together a newspaper, I had about enough. I figured it had to be illegal. I wanted to call someone, anyone in Richmond who would tell me if the generator had to go or if we had to accept it as another sound of the city.

The suggestion was made that led to a call to the city’s 311 line Oct. 21. I tried code compliance and I got bounced around to a few offices. I also sent an e-mail to the main public affairs account.

The next afternoon, I contacted Community Assisted Public Safety, which told me there had to be a police report first and I should talk to the First Precinct. So I called the first precinct. The person who answered the phone seemed genuinely concerned. I told her how it was: there was a generator that had been running since at least Sunday and the day was then Thursday. I had not heard it turn off. If there is no power, there are children in that house. Is this safe? Is this legal?

I was told that a unit would go out and assess the sound and, since there were children, social services would stop by if it was determined that there was a generator running to a house with no power. I came home hoping the noise would be gone. Nope.

At this point, the variations in pitch and tone began to grow in intensity. At times, it would quietly hum before revving and growling like a V-12 waiting to leap off the line. Sometimes there would be silence for just long enough to give us all false hope. Then it would jar us awake, leaving us lethargic the entire work day.

The next night was Friday. I didn’t care that it was Friday and the city was hopping. I wanted to go to sleep. I needed to cover something at 10 a.m. No one answered at the precinct at 9:54 p.m. Oct. 23. I called central dispatch. The guy who answered sounded like he could not believe I was calling about a noisy, potentially unsafe generator on a Friday night. I was told someone would come out if someone had the time. I knew that meant no one was coming. I missed the 10 a.m. appointment.

We did get a mention on the Church Hill blog (see entry before this one).

At this point, I was about to give up. I had called everyone I was told to call. Obviously no one cared. We wondered if it could catch their house on fire. We wondered if the cost of gas to keep the damn thing running surpassed the electric bill. I thought of one last thing. I looked up who owned the property and called the number that went with it. The person seemed concerned that there was a generator attached to what he called “his house” and said he was going to check that out. Nothing happened.

I left a message for CAPS on the 25th. I called public works again on the 26th and was told that there had been calls about the house to the office that day before me. I again hoped that something would come of it.

Some people may say we should have gone over there and talked to them. That’s a big unknown. We don’t know them. Everyone’s quick to say “they could have come to me first” but the x-factor of their reaction to a neighbor telling them to cut it out outweighs what could have come of it. I may die from doing something stupid but I didn’t want knocking on some stranger’s door because it sounds like a prop plane from hell is in their backyard. Besides, they had to have know someone was going to call or stop by at some point. I know there’s general community apathy everywhere but this is interrupting sleep. Some people will walk past a sexual assault, sad to say, but by God, if it wakes them up, they’re going to be hell to pay.

Nada.

We got suggestions to talk to the neighbors but we were also advised not to talk to them because of previous history with that house. We half seriously thought of breaking the generator or just setting their house on fire. I nearly brought an ax.

On the 26th, I tried the police one last time. I mentioned that I had called before and, as far as I knew no one had come out. I was told someone would.

Then it was Wednesday. I had articles to write, photos to edit and an early day today for layout. A roommate upstairs had a midterm to study for. I sat in the living room trying to ignore the noise but I couldn’t. I stopped hanging out in my bedroom because it somehow seemed louder in my bedroom.

As if on cue, one my roommates came home and the generator got exponentially louder. She announced that she could no longer sleep in the house and was no longer going to try. She also suggested contacting CBS6 to see if they could at least get some exposure and prod the city into action. As she looked for a contact e-mail, I remembered that my cell phone hold a treasure trove of awesomeness. Within a few minutes, I had Wayne Covil on the line and he said he was on his way over.

Then things got interesting.

He was surprised at how loud it was and how we put up with it for so long. We mentioned that we were at the end of our rope and one of us was going to do something equally illegal before the week’s end if that fucking generator did not stop running. It was obvious it was not a temporary fix. The cost of has had to be more than what the electric bill was. The thing was bound to catch fire. A couple other neighbors were outside. There were stories of them stealing water and other things.

Wayne tried to figure out exactly where the generator was. He peeked over the fence and saw nothing. It couldn’t possibly be on the second-floor deck of a century-old house. We headed up to our balcony. There was a gas-powered generator on the wooden second-floor deck of a wooden house.

As Wayne gathered his film equipment out on the sidewalk, a man appeared on a bicycle and headed to the backyard. We figured we lost the video for right now. Wayne was going to show it to his producers to see if he could proceed the next day. The noise did not stop. Instead it grew louder. He headed up to the balcony and discovered that the man was gassing up the generator as it was running. As it was running.

A few moments later, the children who live in the house came out because of the camera lights and the louder generator noise. Then the woman who lives there came out.

Enter chaos.

Wayne interviewed some of us after the woman next door screamed at him for a bit and left. One of my roommates and I thought it was a good time to get the hell out of dodge at that point. We didn’t expect the confrontation to happen then and especially not from our balcony.

As today wore on, I felt a little less sorry for them. I mean, I wanted them to get assistance if they needed it or arrested if the generator was powering some hydroponics or a meth lab or something. I certainly didn’t want it to be obvious that we called someone but, at the same time, what the fuck did they expect? That this was atrocious, rattled the brains of not only us but people on the other side of the block and was a HUGE fire hazard. What if we sat idly by and let their house burn down? What kind of members of society would we be? I wanted code compliance or CAPS involved first because I figured they were just having a rough time and they needed to know a generator is not the answer.

Then I though about the kids. They are in a house with no power and a generator running in a fire trap situation. They needed to be safe and warm and have lights. There are things out there that would give them assistance. Why didn’t they think of that for the kids? What if we never called anyone and one or all of those kids died? What if the city never responded and one of those kids died? We had to get TV out here.

Later today, it came out that there was no water either. The city claimed Wayne presenting the situation was the first time they had heard of anything. The city gave the neighbors 48 hours to get the water and power turned back on. They said they were seeking assistance. The agreed to talk on camera. I missed the segment but I’ll post a link in another entry if I find it.

I’m heading home now. The only full night’s sleep I’ve had since the 19th came out of a day where I was awake for 20 hours and crashed and burned. I’m looking forward to sleeping tonight. And I’m looking forward to the people next door having water and power and a better quality of life and I hope they aren’t too pissed that they wound up out there on the news.

the ac, part one

Posted by EXIT265C on October 19, 2009
Posted in: Uncategorized. Tagged: , . Leave a Comment

Our adventure began Thursday. Well, if you want to be technical, the adventure began over the summer when I suggested, for our semesterly official chapter visit, that Bill and I go to our chapter at Richard Stockton College outside of Atlantic City because that was the one chapter I have not visited.

The date was chosen because, it was the only free weekend in October I had that was compatible with the National Fraternity and I was put under the impression from the sign up sheet that we had to go in October. It just so happened that it was our brother Mikey’s birthday that weekend. What was supposed to be a purely business trip with Bill and I going into Atlantic City because we’re both not into gambling but can’t pass it up with it being right there turned into Let’s take Mikey to Atlantic City for His Birthday.

I headed to Norfolk Thursday night because, originally, we were going to head there by way of the Eastern Shore. Factoring in the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel and the logical choice to take the Cape May-Lewes Ferry from that point, it cost less to take Interstate 95 around the other side of the bay. In retrospect, we should have at least taken 301 across the bay but whatever.

Anyway, I headed down Thursday because we were going to leave at about 1 p.m. Friday and there was no point of me going to work Friday if we were leaving that early. Once I got to Bill’s place, I discovered that Mikey’s birthday at the House had been moved to Thursday since we all were leaving. I enjoy when we have more or less brothers and close friends parties, like for birthday parties. A lot of people stop in who I haven’t seen in a while that way. Like my second little brother, Tim. I still need to kick him in the ass for more or less falling of the face of the earth.

After that, I pretended to do some work for the newspaper before gearing up for the road trip.

Finally, Bill got back from class and Mikey arrived and it was time to go. We left at about 1:30 … which got us between Baltimore and Washington just in time for rush hour. It tacked on about three more hours to our trip. We were all a bit cranky by the time we got to our hotel in Atlantic City. We were already in a bad mood anyway because none of us actually wanted to go to New Jersey because it’s … well … New Jersey.

As usual, New Jersey delivered with not giving us a reason to like it. The Atlantic City Expressway doesn’t have a direct connection to the New Jersey Turnpike or I-295, which apparently parallels the turnpike for quite a bit … for free. We essentially had to make a U-turn and, after we got rolling on the expressway, we discovered that rest stops are few and far between on it. We took an exit to get some gas because the sign said there was a gas station. We did not see one. For miles. We eventually got to Black Horse Pike and turned on that because our hotel was on Black Horse Pike and I thought the sign said Black Horse Pike. So did Bill. We even backed up to look at the sign a second time to be sure and we both confirmed to ourselves that it was indeed Black Horse Pike. We headed down the road for a bit and FINALLY got to a gas station. As we were about to turn back onto Black Horse Pike, Mike and Bill noticed that the sign said White Horse Pike. We headed back the way we came to see if Black Horse turned off somewhere. We wound up back where were first turned onto it. We stopped at the same intersection and looked at the sign. Sure enough, it said White Horse Pike.

You got to be fucking kidding me, I said. Are we in &#8220The Twilight Zone&#8221 or some shit?

We headed back toward the expressway and then discovered that there wasn’t an on ramp toward Atlantic City.

What the hell? I said. Did we die and hell is actually New Jersey? Are we just doomed to drive around in this damn forest?

The decision was made to get back on the toll road, get off later and try again. I decided that I wasn’t going to keep giving New Jersey 75 cents because it doesn’t know how to finish building an interchange. We crossed the median illegally.

Finally, FINALLY, we got to the hotel. It looked empty. It was in West Atlantic City on a narrow strip of what was obviously wetlands once and was surrounded by motels that were most likely inhabited by the kind of people who would live on the outskirts of a big gambling town.

As for the hotel, it looked like what would happen if the hotels in &#8220Psycho&#8221 and &#8220The Shining&#8221 had a kid. Seriously. We were freaking out. We were in this giant, kinda empty, quiet hotel with weird-looking wallpaper that looked like it hadn’t been renovated in nearly 40 years. To top it all off, three of the four paintings in our room were identical.

Eventually, after we did manage to freak ourselves out, Bill’s ex-girlfriend Venissa, who now goes to Stockton, stopped by and we went into the city for the first part of Mikey’s birthday celebration. I stuck $5 in a slot machine and wound up with $12. I still don’t see what people see in gambling.