A Scrivener’s Lament
By Tom Davidson
At heart, I’ve always been a newspaperman. I didn’t become a journalist until I reached adulthood, and even then it wasn’t the career path I thought I’d take, but I have fond memories of watching the older man who delivered papers in our neighborhood on his bike, whom my father would often bullshit with and offer a glass of ice water to as we sat on our front porch.
At different points in my formative years we were subscribers, but with a corner store a short walk or bike ride away, I spent a few minutes each afternoon tasked with the chore of picking up the paper and getting to spend some spare change on penny candy.
It beat taking out the garbage or washing the dishes; burning the papers was perhaps the only thing I enjoyed more, but it wasn’t until me teen years that I was allowed to do that.
The paper was our window to the rest of the world: It told us what Tom Holden and Walter Cronkite didn’t have time for in their 30-minute telecasts, which I remember watching on an old black and white console television.
I was bred to be a reader and in addition to the vintage Hardy Boys mysteries, James Fenimore Cooper and Charles Dickens novels on my bookshelf, I read the paper when my father was finished with it.
We passed each section around the living room or front porch after dinner. I can still spend hours reading baseball box scores and statistics. I also came to enjoy reading Mike Royko’s daily diatribe and the stories chronicling Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini’s boxing prowess.
I hung on every word of the sports pages and absorbed enough of the rest of the news so I was informed, even at a young age.
I graduated high school and decided I wanted to be a writer and by that I mean William Faulkner or Ernest Hemingway, not Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein. I wanted to be a “real writer,” I suppose.
Still, I was drawn to the newspaper office at Bowling Green State University – even though I studied serious “creative writing” instead of journalism - and I vaguely recall penning a couple columns criticizing the college president during the blizzard of 1993, when we were the only school that remained open in the state.
From my first walk into the dingy, dimly lit, cluttered sanctuary of that newsroom I came to realize that being a reporter wouldn’t be a bad idea.
I moved home and wandered a bit, dreaming of writing instead of doing it, working two-bit jobs where I developed some skills talking to strangers, and stumbled upon a newspaper job in Greenville.
I re-read Russell Baker’s two memoirs in my first weeks on the job there and checked out every book on journalism I could from the library.
I was hooked on the job from the first car crash I covered and have been listening to police scanner tones since, chomping at the bit as I race to the scene of whatever’s happening.
I’ve been lucky in my career thus far, learning the ins and outs of small town government that’s dominated with talk of sewage and zoning, covering high school field trips and assemblies and village fairs.
Since moving to Sharon, I’ve been able to cover major national stories like Hurricane Katrina, the local cost of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and the Shenango Valley’s tie to the Great Migration of the early 20th century.
I’ve also witnessed the decline in the trade brought on by the explosion of the Web, cell phones, and this Brave New World of corporate media conglomerates concerned about an ever-shrinking bottom line and declining circulation.
My dad didn’t live long enough to see me become a newspaperman (I prefer that term to journalist) and many of his contemporaries are also dead or dying. New, younger readers aren’t buying newspapers because they’re informed by Facebook status updates and Twitter tweets: they expect their news to be free and publishers have yet to figure out how newspapers and other publications will survive in this paperless, wireless world.
I’m stuck in the middle, young enough that most of my career is in front of me, but old enough to lament the heyday, back when I was still in short pants and I was just happy to buy the paper, some Swedish fish and Jawbreakers.
I like the smell and feel of newsprint and remember how the ink would rub onto my hands on muggy summer days, especially, and how when it was all read and digested I could burn it in the backyard barrel.
Now, the industry itself is burning into ashes. I got hot in the newsroom today over something silly and it’s taken me a couple hours to cool off and realize this is my calling; that it’s not anyone’s fault we’re understaffed, overworked and underpaid: at least no one in my newsroom.
The days when families were press barons like Charles Foster Kane’s filmic portrayal of William Randolph Hearst are over.
The Chandler’s of Los Angeles, the Ochs-Sulzberger’s of New York and the Meyer-Grahams of Washington have long taken their products public and Wall Street, not Main Street, decides the course.
I’m re-reading David Halberstam’s chronicle on the media, “The Powers That Be,” published in the 1970s. Then, it was thought to be a profile of the rise of the modern media, but now I see it as a warning bell tolling the inevitable decline of news as we know it.
We have yet to figure out how to compete for and attract new readers in this new age. I used to be one of gaggle of reporters covering an event, now I’m often the only person asking questions and watching as local leaders make important decisions.
Coverage areas are shrinking and don’t overlap much anymore; the news hole and staffs are smaller; people are busier these days and don’t have time to read 500 words on a topic when they can get the essentials in a 10-second sound bite or a two-sentence tweet.
When William Faulkner accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature, he said he “declined to accept the end of man.” Paraphrasing him, I decline to accept the end of newspapers.
But we have our work cut out for us.
We must figure out how to compete with the 1,000 camera phones that were disseminating then-candidate Barack Obama’s Youngstown campaign appearances two years ago as I was struggling to take notes and snap photographs.
We’ve got to become essential again, and more relevant. I miss overhearing people discussing the stories of the day in coffee shops and the telephone calls from people who were outraged at a particular story – the messenger takes a lot of shots – but most days, people lack that passion anymore.
Apathy is abundant and young people don’t seem to care what’s in the paper unless they’re looking for a job, and even then, there as likely to depend on the Internet instead of the want ads.
I don’t like it a bit.
It scares me, because even with an ipad or smart phone, the Internet remains a digital representation of words and images. One might be able to read it on a hand-held device, but what’s being looked at doesn’t exist in the facile way a newspaper or book does.
Web sites go down from time-to-time, batteries die and there are power outages; but one can read a book or newspaper by candlelight, or even write a letter with pen-and-paper, not that anyone does that anymore.
Just as people were scared and suspicious of Gutenberg’s printing press, I’m fearful of this new digitized world, much like old-school football coaches must have been after the inception of the forward pass.
To continue the football analogy, I’m at heart a Buckeye fan and I prefer Woody Hayes’ “three yards and a cloud of dust” to the flashy “wildcat” passes of today’s overpaid superstars.
Day after day, I keep writing what I like to call “three quotes and a cloud of dust” – that’s a short, accurate, descriptive story of a basic news event for you non-news junkies.
But we’ve fumbled the ball too many times lately and the fans, our readers, are no longer rooting for us.
I wish I had the answers to turning it all around, but I’m just a shoe-leather scribe out in the streets of my naked city, trying to scoop the Facebook crowd in style and avoid being a mockingbird duplicating the Twitter tweets.
Read all about my travails in your local newspaper.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Fear & Loathing in Northeast Ohio
Fear & Loathing in Northeast Ohio
By Tom Davidson
They’re burning LeBron James jerseys tonight, now that the King has handed down his decision after about 40 minutes of sports commentary hell tonight.
Apparently, somewhere, someone was losing sleep over the decision, although I suspect it wasn’t Mr. James, and I question whether the move carries with it any actual importance in today’s sports world.
What doesn’t need to be hyped is that this is yet another blow to a region that’s been battered, both on and off the fields and courts of play.
It’s the area the mills left long ago, for cheap-agent contracts overseas; it’s the place where the Tribe has toiled on the baseball field without a championship since 1948; the place the Browns abandoned for the greener pastures of Baltimore.
It’s a place where a team that won 111 times in 1954 was swept in the World Series, a place where the football gods played a series of cosmic jokes in the 1980s on hapless Browns fans.
Knowing several of their ranks, I have no doubts that The Drive, The Fumble, and The Drive II, left permanent psychological scars.
The Tribe turned the corner and started winning when the powers-that-be in baseball went on strike and canceled a World Series. They lost to a Braves team that was better-coached, then stumbled against the Marlins in a collapse that rivaled the Browns losses against the Broncos in the football playoffs of the 1980s.
The Cavs were the third, perhaps lowliest of the sports franchises until they found their savior seven years ago. Then, LeBron seemed like the gift of manna in the Old Testament that kept the Hebrews alive. When the team started winning, “King James” as they called him, seemed to be even Christ-like.
That’s no more.
It turns out, he was just another Judas and betrayed them.
What maddening for the Cavs and their fans, is money wasn’t the motivating factor, winning was. He gave the team seven seasons to produce a winner and it came up short.
Who can blame him for signing with a team that plays in the playground of South Beach? Where he can hobnob with superstars instead of maybe shaking hands with Drew Carey... plus there’s no state income tax in Florida and the climate beats the winter on the shore of Lake Erie.
He’ll be away from a region that’s so stuck on losing it can’t find a way to win when it counts, even with him willing all of his magical talents on the court.
What remains in Cleveland is a legacy of losing it isn’t able to live down, even with a homegrown hero of James’ stature.
“The Decision” is the latest in a long-line of sporting anomalies to curse Cleveland. For the rest of the nation, the question now is “Was it worth the hype?”
In the greater Cleveland area, there are no questions now, it’s just another kick below the belt that leads to a grimace, tears and a resigned feeling that losing is a way of life.
By Tom Davidson
They’re burning LeBron James jerseys tonight, now that the King has handed down his decision after about 40 minutes of sports commentary hell tonight.
Apparently, somewhere, someone was losing sleep over the decision, although I suspect it wasn’t Mr. James, and I question whether the move carries with it any actual importance in today’s sports world.
What doesn’t need to be hyped is that this is yet another blow to a region that’s been battered, both on and off the fields and courts of play.
It’s the area the mills left long ago, for cheap-agent contracts overseas; it’s the place where the Tribe has toiled on the baseball field without a championship since 1948; the place the Browns abandoned for the greener pastures of Baltimore.
It’s a place where a team that won 111 times in 1954 was swept in the World Series, a place where the football gods played a series of cosmic jokes in the 1980s on hapless Browns fans.
Knowing several of their ranks, I have no doubts that The Drive, The Fumble, and The Drive II, left permanent psychological scars.
The Tribe turned the corner and started winning when the powers-that-be in baseball went on strike and canceled a World Series. They lost to a Braves team that was better-coached, then stumbled against the Marlins in a collapse that rivaled the Browns losses against the Broncos in the football playoffs of the 1980s.
The Cavs were the third, perhaps lowliest of the sports franchises until they found their savior seven years ago. Then, LeBron seemed like the gift of manna in the Old Testament that kept the Hebrews alive. When the team started winning, “King James” as they called him, seemed to be even Christ-like.
That’s no more.
It turns out, he was just another Judas and betrayed them.
What maddening for the Cavs and their fans, is money wasn’t the motivating factor, winning was. He gave the team seven seasons to produce a winner and it came up short.
Who can blame him for signing with a team that plays in the playground of South Beach? Where he can hobnob with superstars instead of maybe shaking hands with Drew Carey... plus there’s no state income tax in Florida and the climate beats the winter on the shore of Lake Erie.
He’ll be away from a region that’s so stuck on losing it can’t find a way to win when it counts, even with him willing all of his magical talents on the court.
What remains in Cleveland is a legacy of losing it isn’t able to live down, even with a homegrown hero of James’ stature.
“The Decision” is the latest in a long-line of sporting anomalies to curse Cleveland. For the rest of the nation, the question now is “Was it worth the hype?”
In the greater Cleveland area, there are no questions now, it’s just another kick below the belt that leads to a grimace, tears and a resigned feeling that losing is a way of life.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Too Frosty
He warned us, but have we given him a fighting chance?
by
Tom Davidson
“If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer,” President-elect Barack Obama said when the majority of the nation elected him on Nov. 5, 2008.
Last night, we deserved a better answer.
I’ll concede I wouldn’t wish the problems he’s facing on anyone, but it was time for President Obama to start acting like he’s a part of the solution to our problems, not an impartial bystander to the doomsday events that have plagued us.
For too long, he’s been a harbinger of bad news instead of being the leader who forges a new path, politics be damned. His cool standoffishness is not what the country needs in a leader right now. I didn’t like Reagan’s politics, but as a leader, he was at least a good actor.
When it came to tragedy or terrorism, the man who busted the air-traffic controllers union, talked our way out of the Cold War, and mourned with us through the Challenger Tragedy, was able to lead with gusto and decisiveness, legalities be damned; Reagan was Presidential.
President Obama’s aloofness is costing him a chance to win over people in the name of a crisis. This is a time for us to band together, as he said when he won our hearts and minds, we Americans “who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of red states and blue states; we are, and always will be, the United States of America,” he told us then.
Really?
I’m sick and tired of the divisiveness of the nation. I don’t believe the “grassroots” support of those singing the Songs of the Doomed is as great as they say it is, but I acknowledge their presence.
I’m also seeing other folks, people who once were gaga for Obama, cool off a bit. They’re no longer flying the “hope and change” flag as prominently.
He warned us this day was coming.
Remember?
“The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year, or even one term, but America – I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you: We as a people will get there.”
Thus far it's been a rough-and-tumble time of turmoil. He's gotten the change part right.
My, the changes: The New World Order that's emerging in the wake of an economic Hindenburg. The fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan that is less a war and more a fact of life in this Brave New World – because wars end. The health care reform was so filled with debate that it motivated an unhealthy, New York apple-pie slice of Americans to action and near-constant criticism. They’re led by a motley cast of stentorian talking heads, who pick it apart piece by excruciating piece, in a 24/7 debate that has yet to really end.
He foresaw it, that cold Tuesday in November in Chicago’s Grant Park:
“There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as president, and we know that government can’t solve every problem.”
He was inspiring, then.
Where was the hope when he spoke from the Oval Office Tuesday night? Where’s the man who once aroused a thrill that shot up Chris Matthews’ leg?
He’s a dour man now, saddled with the soiling of the Gulf of Mexico, when he was supposed to be taking a short health-care victory lap, then waiting for the economy to make a great leap forward so people would be inspired to find solutions to our myriad problems.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy.
“But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree.”
But is he hearing us? It’s time for him to show us he’s our leader, and thus far, he’s performed like a sports prospect, a number-1 draft pick who’s been given a huge signing bonus, and has so much potential, but hasn’t yet made it.
It’s not over, Mr. President. There’s still time to man the rudder. I still believe that the American ship is unsinkable because the American people won’t stand for it. We’re not like World Cup soccer fans who will settle for a tie.
We’d rather play football with each other, and since it’s the off-season, the political version of the sport is biding our time, but always, we play to win.
So here’s a “yo” to the “Party of No” that it’s time to abide by our calculated leader. Prove him wrong by getting behind him to see if he can inspire us to “join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it’s been done in America for (223) years – block by block, brick by brick, callused hand by callused hand” or oily for that matter.
Lead us out of it all, Mr. President.
by
Tom Davidson
“If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer,” President-elect Barack Obama said when the majority of the nation elected him on Nov. 5, 2008.
Last night, we deserved a better answer.
I’ll concede I wouldn’t wish the problems he’s facing on anyone, but it was time for President Obama to start acting like he’s a part of the solution to our problems, not an impartial bystander to the doomsday events that have plagued us.
For too long, he’s been a harbinger of bad news instead of being the leader who forges a new path, politics be damned. His cool standoffishness is not what the country needs in a leader right now. I didn’t like Reagan’s politics, but as a leader, he was at least a good actor.
When it came to tragedy or terrorism, the man who busted the air-traffic controllers union, talked our way out of the Cold War, and mourned with us through the Challenger Tragedy, was able to lead with gusto and decisiveness, legalities be damned; Reagan was Presidential.
President Obama’s aloofness is costing him a chance to win over people in the name of a crisis. This is a time for us to band together, as he said when he won our hearts and minds, we Americans “who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of red states and blue states; we are, and always will be, the United States of America,” he told us then.
Really?
I’m sick and tired of the divisiveness of the nation. I don’t believe the “grassroots” support of those singing the Songs of the Doomed is as great as they say it is, but I acknowledge their presence.
I’m also seeing other folks, people who once were gaga for Obama, cool off a bit. They’re no longer flying the “hope and change” flag as prominently.
He warned us this day was coming.
Remember?
“The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year, or even one term, but America – I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you: We as a people will get there.”
Thus far it's been a rough-and-tumble time of turmoil. He's gotten the change part right.
My, the changes: The New World Order that's emerging in the wake of an economic Hindenburg. The fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan that is less a war and more a fact of life in this Brave New World – because wars end. The health care reform was so filled with debate that it motivated an unhealthy, New York apple-pie slice of Americans to action and near-constant criticism. They’re led by a motley cast of stentorian talking heads, who pick it apart piece by excruciating piece, in a 24/7 debate that has yet to really end.
He foresaw it, that cold Tuesday in November in Chicago’s Grant Park:
“There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as president, and we know that government can’t solve every problem.”
He was inspiring, then.
Where was the hope when he spoke from the Oval Office Tuesday night? Where’s the man who once aroused a thrill that shot up Chris Matthews’ leg?
He’s a dour man now, saddled with the soiling of the Gulf of Mexico, when he was supposed to be taking a short health-care victory lap, then waiting for the economy to make a great leap forward so people would be inspired to find solutions to our myriad problems.
He knew it wouldn’t be easy.
“But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree.”
But is he hearing us? It’s time for him to show us he’s our leader, and thus far, he’s performed like a sports prospect, a number-1 draft pick who’s been given a huge signing bonus, and has so much potential, but hasn’t yet made it.
It’s not over, Mr. President. There’s still time to man the rudder. I still believe that the American ship is unsinkable because the American people won’t stand for it. We’re not like World Cup soccer fans who will settle for a tie.
We’d rather play football with each other, and since it’s the off-season, the political version of the sport is biding our time, but always, we play to win.
So here’s a “yo” to the “Party of No” that it’s time to abide by our calculated leader. Prove him wrong by getting behind him to see if he can inspire us to “join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it’s been done in America for (223) years – block by block, brick by brick, callused hand by callused hand” or oily for that matter.
Lead us out of it all, Mr. President.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Fear & Loathing & Laziness (Unpaid)
Fear & Loathing & Laziness (Unpaid)
By Tom Davidson
The American Way has gone all awry in the 21st Century. We forgot our hard-working roots in a whirlwind fugue that brought on this downspin into the Great Abyss. In the name of profits, we’ve scaled back, using the economics of the time as an excuse to sacrifice selves in the name of more profits for shareholders.
It’s nothing new but it’s evolved to the point that some companies really, really just need to fail. End the bail-outs; instead of just cutting back, close up shop; stop being compassionate and offering across-the board temporary furloughs instead of just firing the dead weight and telling the others they need to work more because their jobs are on the line.
We’ve worked ourselves into a false prosperity by helping life’s “C” and “D” students get by. Sure, it was nice for them, but for the people really trying to make a go of it and almost-succeeding it was a crime.
We took the corporate ladder and turned it into an escalator but we didn’t decide who’s going to pay the power bill to keep the contraption running.
I think it’s best to struggle step-by-step instead of taking the free ride, but then, I’m willing to risk my mettle against a brutal system.
I’m tired of watching lesser workers getting a pass and a free paycheck; it foils industry to accept less when more is needed.
Alas, we’re doomed to fall from first place. We, the American Exceptionalists whom the fates have smiled on for more than two centuries are facing crises because we’ve grown lax; pampered; willing to let others do the dirty work instead of sweating for our own success.
So here I sit, at home, writing for free, off unpaid as work piles on my desk and news gets old. (And we wonder why circulation’s down and some people make fun of us?)
What happens to real journalists at the 40th hour of each week? Do they just stop writing?
That’s what’s happening now, most of the time, and it’s why things are suffering.
We expect less and pay less but still strive to cover more and write better, but the problem is that scale is impossible to balance.
So we’re here, treading water, barely, sometimes drowning as we roll with the waves. We cash our lower paychecks each fortnight and complain as stress builds and resentments fester and the end product suffers.
We’re caught in this Super Cycle with most other American institutions, waiting for the Next Great Hope to save us. The truth is far more unsettling: we are beyond saving; unless we collectively shape up, our ship is sunk, we’re taking on water and oil now, and Houston, did you get that radio call that we’ve got a gusher in the Gulf?
The problem is us and our attitude. The Compassionate Conservatives refuse to assume any blame, but it is all of our faults: We delegated too much power and wealth to too few people and now we’re helpless.
We’re slaves to corporate boards and markets beyond our understanding because we weren’t required to take that class in high school or college. We keep on, strident, unhappy, voiceless in this country built by people who strived to win the game. Now, it’s game over and guess what? They won.
By Tom Davidson
The American Way has gone all awry in the 21st Century. We forgot our hard-working roots in a whirlwind fugue that brought on this downspin into the Great Abyss. In the name of profits, we’ve scaled back, using the economics of the time as an excuse to sacrifice selves in the name of more profits for shareholders.
It’s nothing new but it’s evolved to the point that some companies really, really just need to fail. End the bail-outs; instead of just cutting back, close up shop; stop being compassionate and offering across-the board temporary furloughs instead of just firing the dead weight and telling the others they need to work more because their jobs are on the line.
We’ve worked ourselves into a false prosperity by helping life’s “C” and “D” students get by. Sure, it was nice for them, but for the people really trying to make a go of it and almost-succeeding it was a crime.
We took the corporate ladder and turned it into an escalator but we didn’t decide who’s going to pay the power bill to keep the contraption running.
I think it’s best to struggle step-by-step instead of taking the free ride, but then, I’m willing to risk my mettle against a brutal system.
I’m tired of watching lesser workers getting a pass and a free paycheck; it foils industry to accept less when more is needed.
Alas, we’re doomed to fall from first place. We, the American Exceptionalists whom the fates have smiled on for more than two centuries are facing crises because we’ve grown lax; pampered; willing to let others do the dirty work instead of sweating for our own success.
So here I sit, at home, writing for free, off unpaid as work piles on my desk and news gets old. (And we wonder why circulation’s down and some people make fun of us?)
What happens to real journalists at the 40th hour of each week? Do they just stop writing?
That’s what’s happening now, most of the time, and it’s why things are suffering.
We expect less and pay less but still strive to cover more and write better, but the problem is that scale is impossible to balance.
So we’re here, treading water, barely, sometimes drowning as we roll with the waves. We cash our lower paychecks each fortnight and complain as stress builds and resentments fester and the end product suffers.
We’re caught in this Super Cycle with most other American institutions, waiting for the Next Great Hope to save us. The truth is far more unsettling: we are beyond saving; unless we collectively shape up, our ship is sunk, we’re taking on water and oil now, and Houston, did you get that radio call that we’ve got a gusher in the Gulf?
The problem is us and our attitude. The Compassionate Conservatives refuse to assume any blame, but it is all of our faults: We delegated too much power and wealth to too few people and now we’re helpless.
We’re slaves to corporate boards and markets beyond our understanding because we weren’t required to take that class in high school or college. We keep on, strident, unhappy, voiceless in this country built by people who strived to win the game. Now, it’s game over and guess what? They won.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Fear & Loathing at 35!
Fear & Loathing at 35!
By
Tom Davidson
Skylab Skylab Skylab! I remember it falling and my father collecting a piece of history in our basement. At least, that was a family joke!
The mid-to-late 1970s were a national joke and I was a punch line, a long-lost “All in the Family” episode waiting to be filmed.
Sheet & Tube had yet to be closed and my maternal grandfather had yet to be killed – squashed like a bug, according to his co-workers at Valley Mould – shortly after my parents met. Two years later, in 1975, I was borne of them, a child of the flashy-oversized collar and bell-bottom Baby-boomers who are taxing our government today.
My first relevant memories are a house-explosion on Youngstown’s North Side and the capture and release of the hostages in Iran during the Reagan Revolution. I kind of remember that Black Monday in 1977 when Sheet & Tube died and the Steel Valley became a part of the Rust Belt, but those memories are hazy.
I thought we’d be nuclear war-remnants by now; I remain astounded we’ve survived Y2K, 9/11 and whatever you want to call our world-at-the-brink-on-the-blink world as we know it.
All I know is I feel fine.
I’m glad I know what it’s like to struggle. I also remember the shock-and-awe of the 1980s: Challenger falling before my 11-yeat-old eyes, already shaded with the 1985 tornadoes; the fall of the Berlin Wall and of Communism as a Red Scare; the rise of Terror!
The horror, my horror. And now I’m tasked with covering it all. I feel it’s a sacred duty despite the horrific corporate corruption of my calling: The Truth is my bottom line, all other be damned.
As a scribe, I’ve survived Y2K, 9/11, War and Act 47. I’ve written books about sewage and comprehensive plans; I covered Hurricane Katrina and tired to do our local war dead justice.
I maintain a succor for seeing something new every day and writing about it; The Shenango Valley has yet to stump me with its foibles and I keep chasing the sirens and the story that helps to tell the tale of the best and worst of times in this Dickensian, Faulkneresque Valley that is my valley! Still green, though rust-littered after all these (35) years!
And so it goes...
By
Tom Davidson
Skylab Skylab Skylab! I remember it falling and my father collecting a piece of history in our basement. At least, that was a family joke!
The mid-to-late 1970s were a national joke and I was a punch line, a long-lost “All in the Family” episode waiting to be filmed.
Sheet & Tube had yet to be closed and my maternal grandfather had yet to be killed – squashed like a bug, according to his co-workers at Valley Mould – shortly after my parents met. Two years later, in 1975, I was borne of them, a child of the flashy-oversized collar and bell-bottom Baby-boomers who are taxing our government today.
My first relevant memories are a house-explosion on Youngstown’s North Side and the capture and release of the hostages in Iran during the Reagan Revolution. I kind of remember that Black Monday in 1977 when Sheet & Tube died and the Steel Valley became a part of the Rust Belt, but those memories are hazy.
I thought we’d be nuclear war-remnants by now; I remain astounded we’ve survived Y2K, 9/11 and whatever you want to call our world-at-the-brink-on-the-blink world as we know it.
All I know is I feel fine.
I’m glad I know what it’s like to struggle. I also remember the shock-and-awe of the 1980s: Challenger falling before my 11-yeat-old eyes, already shaded with the 1985 tornadoes; the fall of the Berlin Wall and of Communism as a Red Scare; the rise of Terror!
The horror, my horror. And now I’m tasked with covering it all. I feel it’s a sacred duty despite the horrific corporate corruption of my calling: The Truth is my bottom line, all other be damned.
As a scribe, I’ve survived Y2K, 9/11, War and Act 47. I’ve written books about sewage and comprehensive plans; I covered Hurricane Katrina and tired to do our local war dead justice.
I maintain a succor for seeing something new every day and writing about it; The Shenango Valley has yet to stump me with its foibles and I keep chasing the sirens and the story that helps to tell the tale of the best and worst of times in this Dickensian, Faulkneresque Valley that is my valley! Still green, though rust-littered after all these (35) years!
And so it goes...
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Fear & Loathing in May
Fear & Loathing in May
Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.
-- Tom, as Narrator, in Scene One
“The Glass Menagerie”
Tennessee Williams
Getting the story started is the hardest part. I know what I want to tell you, but how to start it?
I could tell you about that hour-long drive almost 10 years ago when I went to watch a former co-worker portray the Tom character in “The Glass Menagerie” – it was a summer-stock production, or at least what passes for summer stock in western Pennsylvania. Our group was one of a handful who came to the show. It felt like we had the theater to ourselves.
I felt bad then for Schyler, that’s his last name, his full name is Radcliffe Schyler. No one calls him “Rad” or “Radcliffe” but as is the habit among boys at certain preparatory schools and over-priced liberal arts colleges, he’s called “Schyler.”
It’s an odd spelling of a last name, it seems to me. It’s as if there’s a vowel missing before the “y” and Schyler’s like that himself: He’s missing that vowel.
Schyler was performing the Williams play to less than 50 people (25 is a better estimate, but it was tough to get an accurate head count with the house lights dimmed.).
“Menagerie” isn’t the kind of play that plays well in western Pennsylvania. People like to laugh here and they like the jokes to be clean.
Not to sully anything about “The Glass Menagerie” – it’s just that is the kind of thing better appreciated by city folks or people in high school or college.
I hadn’t talked to Schyler for about 10 years after that, when he found me on one of those social networking Web sites that I used to despise, but now am unhappily almost addicted to: if I don’t log in each day, what am I missing?
It spins around in my mind until I have no choice but to get up and wait for the computer to boot up. Most of the time, I’m disappointed. The interesting stuff only seems to happen when I’m too busy to care and then I find out about it days later, when my life has slowed down and I waste the time looking at what my “friends” are up to. By then, they’re back to tedium.
As it turns out, Schyler has nothing to do with this story, he was just a digression. This story’s about two kids I saw swimming Sunday afternoon in an un-heated above-ground pool that had clean-enough, albeit cold, water.
The boys, ages 16 and 14 were splashing about and fooling around on a humid, but mild, early May afternoon. Not swimming weather by a long shot. But they made the most of the day and are probably sitting indoors by now, teeth chattering, lips blue, fingertips shriveled like prunes: I know the feeling, I’ve been there.
I’m listening to Johnny Cash sing Steve Goodman’s folk song about the “City of New Orleans” – the train, not the city – as I think about the kids splashing each other in a pool that I swam in when I was there age.
Back then, the corner store that’s almost caddy-corner from the house sold penny candy and even cigarettes to kids. I remember being sent to the store with a couple singles to buy my dad a soft-pack of Kent kings, a newspaper, and some candy with the change.
Swedish fish and fire balls were favorites, but there were so many choices: Laffy Taffy, Jaw Breakers, Boston Baked Beans, string licorice. Older kids would come in and buy 40s of malt liquor; I don’t think the clerks cared if they were 21.
Much as I reminisce about the “good-old days” I can’t help but think about how we were making the best during trying times. Looking at the facts, the Shenango Valley lost its prosperity in the 1980s: the mills were closing and unemployment was rampant. Still, I remember them as glorious days.
Much like 85-year-old Kate Yasgur, who attended a recent tea party. The Greenville resident longed for the days of her girlhood – the late 1930s. The country was in the midst of the Great Depression and was about to enter World War II, but to Mrs. Yasgur, they were a time full of wonder and delight.
She liked her government then and told me she supported FDR’s New Deal whole-heartedly. Others didn’t, equating the laws that were passed expanding the government and creating an American welfare state were un-American.
More than half-a-century later we’re still debating the issue. Some still, like Archie Bunker, maintain, “we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.”
Myself, I relish the intense debate we’re having. There is no right answer in politics and that we’re allowed to freely speak our minds is something I cherish as an American.
While right now some of us are fretting about the direction our country is headed, the kids I saw swimming in the pool will look back on this time as their “glory days.”
That’s America for you.
Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.
-- Tom, as Narrator, in Scene One
“The Glass Menagerie”
Tennessee Williams
Getting the story started is the hardest part. I know what I want to tell you, but how to start it?
I could tell you about that hour-long drive almost 10 years ago when I went to watch a former co-worker portray the Tom character in “The Glass Menagerie” – it was a summer-stock production, or at least what passes for summer stock in western Pennsylvania. Our group was one of a handful who came to the show. It felt like we had the theater to ourselves.
I felt bad then for Schyler, that’s his last name, his full name is Radcliffe Schyler. No one calls him “Rad” or “Radcliffe” but as is the habit among boys at certain preparatory schools and over-priced liberal arts colleges, he’s called “Schyler.”
It’s an odd spelling of a last name, it seems to me. It’s as if there’s a vowel missing before the “y” and Schyler’s like that himself: He’s missing that vowel.
Schyler was performing the Williams play to less than 50 people (25 is a better estimate, but it was tough to get an accurate head count with the house lights dimmed.).
“Menagerie” isn’t the kind of play that plays well in western Pennsylvania. People like to laugh here and they like the jokes to be clean.
Not to sully anything about “The Glass Menagerie” – it’s just that is the kind of thing better appreciated by city folks or people in high school or college.
I hadn’t talked to Schyler for about 10 years after that, when he found me on one of those social networking Web sites that I used to despise, but now am unhappily almost addicted to: if I don’t log in each day, what am I missing?
It spins around in my mind until I have no choice but to get up and wait for the computer to boot up. Most of the time, I’m disappointed. The interesting stuff only seems to happen when I’m too busy to care and then I find out about it days later, when my life has slowed down and I waste the time looking at what my “friends” are up to. By then, they’re back to tedium.
As it turns out, Schyler has nothing to do with this story, he was just a digression. This story’s about two kids I saw swimming Sunday afternoon in an un-heated above-ground pool that had clean-enough, albeit cold, water.
The boys, ages 16 and 14 were splashing about and fooling around on a humid, but mild, early May afternoon. Not swimming weather by a long shot. But they made the most of the day and are probably sitting indoors by now, teeth chattering, lips blue, fingertips shriveled like prunes: I know the feeling, I’ve been there.
I’m listening to Johnny Cash sing Steve Goodman’s folk song about the “City of New Orleans” – the train, not the city – as I think about the kids splashing each other in a pool that I swam in when I was there age.
Back then, the corner store that’s almost caddy-corner from the house sold penny candy and even cigarettes to kids. I remember being sent to the store with a couple singles to buy my dad a soft-pack of Kent kings, a newspaper, and some candy with the change.
Swedish fish and fire balls were favorites, but there were so many choices: Laffy Taffy, Jaw Breakers, Boston Baked Beans, string licorice. Older kids would come in and buy 40s of malt liquor; I don’t think the clerks cared if they were 21.
Much as I reminisce about the “good-old days” I can’t help but think about how we were making the best during trying times. Looking at the facts, the Shenango Valley lost its prosperity in the 1980s: the mills were closing and unemployment was rampant. Still, I remember them as glorious days.
Much like 85-year-old Kate Yasgur, who attended a recent tea party. The Greenville resident longed for the days of her girlhood – the late 1930s. The country was in the midst of the Great Depression and was about to enter World War II, but to Mrs. Yasgur, they were a time full of wonder and delight.
She liked her government then and told me she supported FDR’s New Deal whole-heartedly. Others didn’t, equating the laws that were passed expanding the government and creating an American welfare state were un-American.
More than half-a-century later we’re still debating the issue. Some still, like Archie Bunker, maintain, “we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.”
Myself, I relish the intense debate we’re having. There is no right answer in politics and that we’re allowed to freely speak our minds is something I cherish as an American.
While right now some of us are fretting about the direction our country is headed, the kids I saw swimming in the pool will look back on this time as their “glory days.”
That’s America for you.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Fear & Loathing on the Hamster Wheel
Fear & Loathing on the Hamster Wheel
Sometimes I feel like I’m a hamster running on one of those silly wheels, spinning quickly to nowhere. The futility of the exercise is symptomatic of working within the institutions of today. My protest is just another “Catch-22”-like tome to rail against the absurdity of it all.
As a professional observer, I watch a lot of re-runs. The criminals I cover commit such similar crimes that it’s tough to keep the specific incidents straight; the community events I attend are mainly traditional, annual things that happen with little script changes each year.
Many times, I feel like I’m living the movie “Groundhog Day” infinitely. Finding something new to write about or photograph in the midst of these constants is the challenge. Finding the new in the midst of all these same-old, same-old, re-runs of life takes patience and paying close attention to detail.
When something brand-new happens, it’s a time to rejoice, to write about or photograph something the likes of which haven’t been seen here before.
For ages now, men have complained that it’s all been said before, that all things are discovered and there’s nothing new under the sun.
But that isn’t true. The newness slips in unannounced, most of the time, and I’m always ready to spot when it happens.
When it does and I capture that moment, I feel like Henri Cartier-Bresson, whose artistic credo was to capture the definitive moment. His art was in photographs and that “definitive moment” was that point that makes the picture live.
It’s the same with words and there are a few creations that live with the spark of genuine life; of energy and emotion harnessed into something that people want to look at or read again and again.
When that happens, and as an artist I am able to corral that bit of this American life, it makes all the repetition worth it.
It stops the hamster wheel and justifies the time spent spinning. It’s a re-affirming thought to think that I’m not just a hamster spinning a wheel in a cage to burn energy.
Here’s to life!
Sometimes I feel like I’m a hamster running on one of those silly wheels, spinning quickly to nowhere. The futility of the exercise is symptomatic of working within the institutions of today. My protest is just another “Catch-22”-like tome to rail against the absurdity of it all.
As a professional observer, I watch a lot of re-runs. The criminals I cover commit such similar crimes that it’s tough to keep the specific incidents straight; the community events I attend are mainly traditional, annual things that happen with little script changes each year.
Many times, I feel like I’m living the movie “Groundhog Day” infinitely. Finding something new to write about or photograph in the midst of these constants is the challenge. Finding the new in the midst of all these same-old, same-old, re-runs of life takes patience and paying close attention to detail.
When something brand-new happens, it’s a time to rejoice, to write about or photograph something the likes of which haven’t been seen here before.
For ages now, men have complained that it’s all been said before, that all things are discovered and there’s nothing new under the sun.
But that isn’t true. The newness slips in unannounced, most of the time, and I’m always ready to spot when it happens.
When it does and I capture that moment, I feel like Henri Cartier-Bresson, whose artistic credo was to capture the definitive moment. His art was in photographs and that “definitive moment” was that point that makes the picture live.
It’s the same with words and there are a few creations that live with the spark of genuine life; of energy and emotion harnessed into something that people want to look at or read again and again.
When that happens, and as an artist I am able to corral that bit of this American life, it makes all the repetition worth it.
It stops the hamster wheel and justifies the time spent spinning. It’s a re-affirming thought to think that I’m not just a hamster spinning a wheel in a cage to burn energy.
Here’s to life!
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