In writing the obituary of a weather expert, he wrote that there was "no well-established meteorological career path to follow." The same might be said about writing obituaries.
But if there is a path to follow, it may be the one taken by Robert McG. Thomas Jr.: equal parts police beat, society news, and sports reporter — and, perhaps most importantly — a veteran rewrite man.
His best obits make up, "52 McGs.," the first book I've finished reading in 2013.
This week, like every other week, I've had obituaries on my mind, which set the backdrop for a climactic Saturday morning plowing through the back half of this collection. I'd been thinking about the Margalit Fox obituary for Dear Abby, and also the scrips and scraps I've turned up in my newspaper, including one man whose obit included his nickname: "Possum."
But the craft of Thomas's writing, and his deadpan delivery, may have no match. Obviously, I recommend the book, and here are a few favorite passages:
Mary Bancroft, spy
If Mary Bancroft had not existed, a hack novelist would surely have invented her, or tried.
Anton Rosenberg, a hipster ideal
... the Greenwich Village hipster ideal of 1950's cool to such a laid-back degree and with such determined detachment that he never amounted to much of anything...
Toots Barger, queen of the game duckpins
... leading to have duckpins named the Maryland state sport. The campaign failed, perhaps because legislators felt duckpins was just too odd to be the state sport, especially when Maryland already had an official sport: jousting.
Marshall Berger, linguist
A specialist in dialect geography, or dialectology, as it is known in linguistics, he was a dialectologist's dialectologist, a man with such a keen ear for the subtle variations of speech patterns that after listening for a few moments he could often tell a speaker's ethnic background, the neighborhood where he had grown up and his level of education.
Minnesota Fats, pool hustler
He certainly looked like a Minnesota Fats, or at least some Fats. At 5 feet and 10 inches, Mr. Wanderone had weighed as much as 300 pounds. ... Curiously, after he became Minnesota Fats, his new persona led to an actual job, something he had studiously avoided.
WNYC recently reported on The New York Times morgue, which has gained much notoriety via the popularization of the Times' new Tumblr called The Lively Morgue. I presume a lot of people have already run across this gem. If not, you should add it to your RSS reader and/or bookmark it. The content is almost always fascinating.
The article, and particularly the video that accompanied the article, stood out to me, in part, because they feature the morgue's caretaker, Jeffrey Roth.
I really liked the commentary provided by the Times photography and reporting staff, especially this:
"I don't know that I would say the morgue is a diamond in the rough, I might say it is a rough in the rough. It is as unpolished as the world we inhabit now, that's what makes it invaluable. It is a reminder that we are not leading a life for the first time. We've been here before."
- David W. Dunlap, New York Times reporter.
There was a small op-ed in today's New York Times about a forthcoming documentary entitled Under African Skies, which looks into the making of Paul Simon's Graceland 25 years after its release. I've shared, albeit briefly, here before my love for this album and the impact it made on my childhood. It is, I think, my all-time favorite album because of its abstract themes, poeticism, and its placement as one of the singular musical works I muse upon when I think about my youth and my mother. It's a perfect summertime album as well. I look forward to seeing this documentary.
Not because I plan to watch The Oscars this year, but more because it's been on my mind ever since the movie was released, but I really hope Tree of Life snags the award for best picture on Sunday.
It was the one movie I watched this year -- and I've watched a good many -- that really affected me as a viewer. I'm not claiming to be a worthy film critic. In fact, in the case of this movie by Terrence Malick, I'd have to recuse myself from reviewing based on the emotional response I felt as a result of watching it. Saying I felt connected with the story or characters truly is an understatement. I even hesitate about writing anything here because there's no way I'd do the movie or my own response any justice. But still, some brief notes.
Here's the list of nominees for the award for best picture (bolded are the ones I've seen):
The Artist, The Descendants, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Hugo, Midnight in Paris, Moneyball, The Tree of Life, and War Horse
Commence my amateur musings on the following films:
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close: I was intrigued with this movie the first time I saw the trailer (ignore the U2 song). The premise behind its message -- which really set on display the wonders of human inter-connection -- seemed akin to my favorite aspects of This American Life, so there was no trouble getting me into the theater. And while I enjoyed the film, the main character blossomed into a rather intolerable subject, ultimately sapping any emotional connection I might have felt for him. The movie is framed around Sept. 11, which is well-positioned for the ultimate emotional response from viewers. I cried. Several times. But at the same time I couldn't help but consider a passage from the review I'd read in The New York Times by Manohla Dargis (who I've grown to appreciate over time):
In truth, "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" isn’t about Sept. 11. It’s about the impulse to drain that day of its specificity and turn it into yet another wellspring of generic emotions: sadness, loneliness, happiness. This is how kitsch works. It exploits familiar images, be they puppies or babies — or, as in the case of this movie, the twin towers — and tries to make us feel good, even virtuous, simply about feeling. And, yes, you may cry, but when tears are milked as they are here, the truer response should be rage.
I didn't trust the movie or the motives behind it, and I didn't really like the main character. It wasn't until the very end, when a fairly revelatory moment passes, that it drew me back into the folds of the story (which was a bit far-fetched to begin with).
Midnight in Paris: I appreciated this film for all the same reasons I feel like I always appreciate Woody Allen's work. And while I walked in expecting a good amount of novelty, it was ultimately lathered on a bit to thick. The idea of time travel, of Paris (in general), and even Owen Wilson as the lead character, didn't click with me. It was a fun film (at best) but kind of, maybe a waste of my time (at worst). I definitely don't regret seeing it, but do I think it should be stacked up against some of the other nominees? Nah. See the trailer here.
Moneyball: It's been awhile since I've seen the movie, so I'm going largely on memory here. Walking away it was an enjoyable film, but one I felt like I'd seen before. Another sports movie with a leading man who tussles against the odds (literally), sticks with what he believes in, wins, gets a big!wonderful job offer (akin to selling out) and chooses to turn down the offer to remain his own man. Eh.
Yes, I realize this is an adaptation of the Michael Lewis book. Yes, I realize it is regarded, among many circles, as a well done adaptation. However, there is an award for that -- and it shouldn't be best picture.
The film was long, and as it meandered along, I couldn't help but keep track of the time as the entire lower half of my body fell asleep. Brad Pitt had a good performance, I'll say that. Good story, decent movie, but stacked against Tree of Life? I just don't see this one meriting the prize. See the trailer.
Tree of Life: I could go on and on about how much this film floored me. I drove an hour to Orlando just to see it at the charming Enzian Theater. I accidentally left my phone at the cinema, and drove back the next day only to see the movie for a second time. Both occasions practically had me on my knees.
On two occasions, the director, Terrence Malick, left me feeling like I might need to step outside to catch my breath. The way he opted to tell this story, abandoning a traditional narrative structure to embrace what I'd consider to be a well organized series of raw imagery, scenes and feelings, left me with a sensation I'm not used to feeling. Scenes that otherwise would have been dulled by dialogue were instead sharp and visceral in silence. There's no doubt, when it comes to showing rather than telling, Malick went to an extreme, but it worked wonders ... and left me rattled.
The film's protagonist, a young boy named Jack (played well by Hunter McCracken), shared a relationship with his siblings that I found to be incredibly realistic, with notes that hearkened back to my own upbringing. His story revealed the relationships between brothers, sons and fathers, and sons and mothers with undertones that reflect a very deep reality.
Malick got the family dynamics down so accurately, I think. All those moments that are so quiet or short or unaccented in real life -- things you feel in the moment, but easily forget within seconds. Malick found those lost moments, and under his microscope, you really get an idea for how raw and meaningful they can be.
This passage, again from The New York Timesreview (by A.O. Scott), really resonated with me:
"There are very few films I can think of that convey the changing interior weather of a child's mind with such fidelity and sensitivity. Nor are there many that penetrate so deeply into the currents of feeling that bind and separate the members of a family. So much is conveyed — about the tension and tenderness within the O'Brien marriage, about the frustrations that dent their happiness, about the volatility of the bonds between siblings — but without any of the usual architecture of dramatic exposition."
The film is hyper-introspective, and I loved that about it.
By the same token, it isn't just that Malick put his characters under a microscope, after all, the film does tackle macro subject matter -- things like God, the beginning of time, and the universe. It sounds silly, and it's true that the viewers watch as major archetypes collide on screen -- and tiny emotional moments weaving into a massive and epic story. But it works, and maybe it's because the film is so rooted into Malick's own past, his own imagination. Sometimes huge and dreamy subject matter -- not always straightforward -- will make sense because the themes dip so deep into a sense of humanity we all share. Malick tapped this area of our imaginations, I think, and pulled out a truly deserving film. I really think it's something special, and it deserves further recognition.
I'll stop gushing. It's the clear winner in my book, at least when placed up against the other films I did see. Some viewers criticized Malick (with much vitriol) and accused him of being self-indulgent. The ones that didn't feel that way seemed to love it without reservation. It was one of those divisive films this year, but I agree, at least halfway, with the last line of New York magazine reviewer David Edelstein's NPR piece: "You might find it ridiculously sublime or sublimely ridiculous — or, like me, both. But it's a hell of a trip."
I won't wax on the films I've not seen, that wouldn't be fair, but for the sake of full disclosure (and because it seems to be the favorite), I remain dubious about the kitsch factor of The Artist, with its black and white style and throwback regard to the silent film era. It kept me from seeing it, but that's also a reflection of my own close-mindedness.
Anyone else have any thoughts about this year's contenders?
Feist might be my favorite guitarist. And her Nashville show tonight, announced just a day in advance, jumped immediately to the top of Katie's favorite concert list.
I'd been obsessively listening to the new "Metals" album this week, finally getting into it, but I had no idea what was about to happen. I noticed a tweet around 6:30 p.m. from someone selling two tickets to her sold-out show. At that moment, I was thinking the person was referring to tomorrow's Atlanta show, 4 hours away. I hadn't heard about her late-breaking decision to play Nashville. Great luck! Ever since we saw Andrew Bird two winters ago in Richmond, we'd had Feist at No. 1 on our must-see list.
The show did not disappoint. Her crew absolutely stomped through most of her new songs on "Metals," including an epic rendition of "Undiscovered First," with Feist jerking around her guitar and the backup singers playing out a dramatic, synchronized tambourine routine. I've come to consider "Anti-Pioneer" a favorite, and decided tonight that I would happily listen to the opening notes on repeat forever (be warned, Grooveshark's "Anti-Pioneer" is falsely labeled).
One of the reasons I mention Andrew Bird is that he and Feist go to wild and wonderful places with their songs when performing live. Tonight, for example, she performed an initially unrecognizable version of "Mushaboom," and a jangly rocking version of "I Feel It All," in which the drumming actually brought to mind some old live clips of Neutral Milk Hotel.
Small note: the big sounds and backing vocals of "Commotion" were not cheesy live.
I'd also briefly mention that the set was interrupted (said harshly) partway through to allow a local fella to belt out some neo-soul song. Feist masterfully followed the wannabe barn burner -- taking back the show -- with "Comfort Me," a song that begins as an acoustic solo and mounts to a thunderous peak.
Here's an incomplete setlist (updated x3):
Commotion Undiscovered First How Come You Never Go There Anti-Pioneer Mushaboom Graveyard Comfort Me The Bad In Each Other My Moon, My Man I Feel It All When The Circle Married the Line Caught A Long Wind Get It Wrong, Get It Right Cicadas and Gulls Let It Die (slow dancing encouraged)
On second thought, I figured it'd be best to just post these here.
There were some really exceptional stories in today's Sunday Times (not a surprise). I still have to go through the Arts & Leisure and Sunday Magazine sections, but if anyone is interested, I'd suggest checking out the following:
"In an anonymous office building on L Street in Washington, four unlikely State Department contractors sat around a table. Josh King, sporting multiple ear piercings and a studded leather wristband, taught himself programming while working as a barista. Thomas Gideon was an accomplished hacker. Dan Meredith, a bicycle polo enthusiast, helped companies protect their digital secrets.
Then there was Mr. Meinrath, wearing a tie as the dean of the group at age 37. He has a master’s degree in psychology and helped set up wireless networks in underserved communities in Detroit and Philadelphia.
The group’s suitcase project will rely on a version of “mesh network” technology, which can transform devices like cellphones or personal computers to create an invisible wireless web without a centralized hub."
"This 3-year-old German shepherd, who commutes by private jet between a Minnesota estate and a home in Arizona, belongs to a canine caste that combines exalted pedigree, child-friendly cuddliness and arm-lacerating ferocity."
“At the half-mile pole, I was hearing whips cracking behind me, and I could hear guys chirping to their horses, and all I’m doing is picking up the tempo,” said Valdivia, a 36-year-old from Peru.
A major drama was unfolding behind him with the Kentucky Derby winner Animal Kingdom, who was cut off out of the gate by Mucho Macho Man and became tangled with that colt and another one, Monzon.
Speaking of The Arizona Republic, they've had some great stories on the Wallow Wildfire that's sweeping across the eastern half of the state. They also produced this stunning map, which illustrates the spread of the fire day-by-day.
The map got mention on several national news outlets, as well as by Charles Apple, the former design editor of The Virginian Pilot. And I have to mention another shout out by Apple, who recently praised The Plain Dealer, in Cleveland, for their awesome front page package on Terrelle Pryor.
This is a tangent, but I've been pretty wowed by the design work going on at The Plain Dealer (See: this and this and especially this).
Sitting in a chair in his Williamsburg apartment, Mr. Janssen, who is from England, whistled along to a blues song as he strummed his guitar. But his is no ordinary warble. In fact, Mr. Janssen, 35, is considered one of the world’s best whistlers. And he may also be one of the more controversial.
The palate style is a rarity, and Mr. Janssen’s almost freakish ability to make notes soar and tremolo has earned him respect among many of whistling’s cognoscenti. It also won him a big-screen TV in his first ever whistling contest in 2005 in Sydney.
...
But the style also has its detractors among purists who say it doesn’t belong where the pucker style has long prevailed.
Since the beginning of the week, I've dipped into the writings of men such as Clifton Daniel, James Reston and Tom Wicker. Introduced to this cadre largely from the works of Gay Talese, I've found myself browsing many of their pieces, and those of other prominent 1930s writers, on seemingly ancient newspaper fronts. The assassination of John F. Kennedy, the Charles Lindbergh landing, etc.
It's become a sort of rewarding form of catharsis I'd never forecast for myself -- looking back through these old accounts, beyond the curtain of new journalism and into the industry's rich history. The details in some of these stories have left me speechless. Literally, without speech. In many ways, this silly "discovery" is almost as exciting as my most recent accomplishment, having made my way through all nine seasons of The X-Files (see: brilliant).
I decided to begin today with a newspaper (I say this with full transparency: I normally wallow in bed on the weekends until around noon). I didn't anticipate it to become a three-hour experience, but, in hindsight, it was completely worthwhile. If you're interested, I'd suggest giving these a read:
I've omitted the good stories I've read so far today about the conflict in Libya. It would appear that much of their coverage has been updated online since press time yesterday evening.
In light of our departure tomorrow (already!?) for New York City, an excerpt from a recent travel chat between Chase and I:
Chase: so the bus departs @ 7:30. it takes 2.5 to get [to Washington D.C.], then we need to find parking, call cab, get to the bus stop. I think we should leave by 4. we'd get to DC proper at 6:30 (if no traffic problems) -- and it would leave 45 minutes to call cab, get to stop (usually 20-25 minutes). It'll still be too close for comfort, but i think 4 is the latest we should leave
Tony: One thing: where's the bus stop?
Chase: downtown
Tony: because GMaps says the fastest way to DC is 2 hours and 50 minutes ... not 2.5.
Chase: oh shit
Tony: AHEM
Chase: hmmm...i always feel like it's just an hour and a half
Tony: I know you assume it's about 45 minutes to DC, but ...
The executive editor of The New York Times, Bill Keller, wrote a piece in today's Sunday Magazine detailing his newspaper's work with WikiLeaks. It's nine pages long, but I thought it was a great read.
Here's a passage from the story that I really liked:
"The Guardian, whose readership is more sympathetic to the guerrilla sensibilities of WikiLeaks, was attacked for being too fastidious about redacting the documents: How dare you censor this material? What are you hiding? Post everything now! The mail sent to The Times, at least in the first day or two, came from the opposite field. Many readers were indignant and alarmed: Who needs this? How dare you? What gives you the right?
Much of the concern reflected a genuine conviction that in perilous times the president needs extraordinary powers, unfettered by Congressional oversight, court meddling or the strictures of international law and certainly safe from nosy reporters. That is compounded by a popular sense that the elite media have become too big for their britches and by the fact that our national conversation has become more polarized and strident.
Although it is our aim to be impartial in our presentation of the news, our attitude toward these issues is far from indifferent. The journalists at The Times have a large and personal stake in the country’s security. We live and work in a city that has been tragically marked as a favorite terrorist target, and in the wake of 9/11 our journalists plunged into the ruins to tell the story of what happened here. Moreover, The Times has nine staff correspondents assigned to the two wars still being waged in the wake of that attack, plus a rotating cast of photographers, visiting writers and scores of local stringers and support staff. They work in this high-risk environment because, while there are many places you can go for opinions about the war, there are few places — and fewer by the day — where you can go to find honest, on-the-scene reporting about what is happening. We take extraordinary precautions to keep them safe, but we have had two of our Iraqi journalists murdered for doing their jobs. We have had four journalists held hostage by the Taliban — two of them for seven months. We had one Afghan journalist killed in a rescue attempt. Last October, while I was in Kabul, we got word that a photographer embedded for us with troops near Kandahar stepped on an improvised mine and lost both his legs.
We are invested in the struggle against murderous extremism in another sense. The virulent hatred espoused by terrorists, judging by their literature, is directed not just against our people and our buildings but also at our values and at our faith in the self-government of an informed electorate. If the freedom of the press makes some Americans uneasy, it is anathema to the ideologists of terror.
So we have no doubts about where our sympathies lie in this clash of values. And yet we cannot let those sympathies transform us into propagandists, even for a system we respect."
Here's the deal, you can only read this bitch once...after that, it will never be the same. So find a comfortable spot and dive into this masterful piece of work.
In fact, the best way to introduce this article is to quote directly from it:
"The fight for the dog is matched in intensity only by the fight for the money. The filings in this case have unveiled a scrumptious buffet of new information about Richard Scaife's riches -- where they've come from and where they've gone."
On another note, I wrote to David Segal (who, after perusing his New York Times trove of stories, has become a byline I plan to follow) and received a pleasant e-mail in return less than an hour later.
A snippet: "Thanks for writing me. I must say I did enjoy that Scaife piece. Oh lawdy lawdy was it fun."
Before I hint at analysis, feast your eyes on a photo I'll likely be long obsessed with: Andrees Letif in Thailand for Reuters. Startling and rich, buried there in black-and-white on page A5 (or so) of the Times today.
So I'm back to trying to read the Times, Post, and Journal each Sunday. From now on I'll be writing new posts for each week, and just carrying along the chart that follows below.
The Times thoroughly won the day today, with a front page that took me 30 minutes+ to read. Stories ranged from a deep profile on the Times Square bomber, to exposing continued US spying and controversy over girls' flag football.
Then things got really good inside, where reporter Elissa Gootman embedded herself into New York City's 311 call center. Not an Iraqi embed, no, but she wrote one hell of a feature story about the "questions, concerns, fears, suspicions, frustrations and gripes of city residents" that come into its 311 information call center. Great blend of fact and feature in the story.
Garcia drank in the pretty hats and the sports coats that dotted the grandstand at historic Pimlico. He took in the raucous infield, with its bleary-eyed revelers lifting their plastic mugs.
Behind him, Calvin Borel was stone-faced, crouched over Super Saver, the winner of the Kentucky Derby, and looking as if the weight of his Triple Crown aspirations had caved him in.
Not Garcia, 25.
You can look back at a well crafted Derby story here (and a great photo here). The AP wrote of the Derby:
Calvin Borel deftly tucked Super Saver along the rail Saturday on a track turned into creamy peanut butter by heavy rain. Once again, he was in his favorite spot, getting a clear path all the way through the goo.
That’s why they call him “Bo-rail” and, for the third time in four years, he took the shortest path to the winner’s circle.
Borel found only one horse in his way, and once he steered Super Saver around front-running Conveyance, another Run for the Roses was his.
The most wide-open Derby in years ended with a sure thing — Borel crossing the finish line and punching the air with this right fist, this time raising it toward a leaden sky.
The Times ruled today in all aspects, but the Post's "War of Persuasion" reads well.
Times reporters are adept at telling even-handed, fair stories that include shocking information and records that must have taken great effort to obtain -- personal e-mails of the Times Square bomber, for example -- and rarely fall into the trap of sounding stuffy or oblivious when writing about "real people" type topics. All media has failed at writing about Facebook in a relevant way (except for recently about privacy), but the Times fails least on topics of that sort.
I wonder a bit what it's like to have such great "cherry picking" power as the Times. They dispatch a reporter to Nevada to write about contractors building new neighborhoods alongside totally vacant, unsold neighborhoods, because "consumers want new." They send another to Colorado to learn about sophisticated copper thieves. Not easy stories to get, I suppose, but you know before you go that those topics will bear fruit. What a treat it must be to travel for the Times.
Update 4/18/10 In the most rewarding Sunday reading of the year, the big three pleased in unique ways.
The Wall Street Journal felt more newsy than normal. They also delivered -- finally -- on their often over-touted Weekend Journal and Journal Report materials. Those sections always throw around big illustrations but rarely the depth I'd like. But the essay on states breaking into new states and their collection of analytical stories about the future of eco-minded development were superb and accessible.
One Journal fault: they again trotted out a rather pandering "quirky" feature in the lauded A1 Feature position. I'm piecing together evidence on the topic for a standalone post.
The Times did everything well, but delivered a somewhat less enticing A1 than usual. Notable exception being the Mexican drug war story. I can't get enough of the topic, but that said, this particular story felt richer than many. It had the statistics and hard news, but it also managed to stay relatively "local" in feel, thereby refraining from "over context" or adding too much unnecessary and obvious gravity to the situation.
Just a quick glance shows how they delivered good stories across the paper:
The Post, although a distant third place this week, nonetheless revealed a couple things I think it does really well (in addition to being excellent. Obviously). First, it put a "pure pleasure" read on A1. This story about the Skilcraft pen. And they delivered a politics story with great on-the-scene details and broader context in "Florida freefall." The Times has recently knocked home run political stories on Axelrod and Rahm Emanuel.
The Post probably suffered from batting last today.
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: Update 3/28/10 I've decided to introduce The Wall Street Journal into the game, in part because of a stellar weekend edition that grabbed me today. I also wasn't able to pick up a Washington Post. I read the Post a day later.
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
Thanks to the TNV circulation crew, we're now delivering the Washington Post alongside our MG papers. And thanks to the Garners, I'm receiving this year's Sunday editions of the New York Times!
So I'm reading a lot. ... The Atlantic and Columbia Journalism Review too ...
In thinking of what else to do with the gift of the Times, I think I'll be saving the best layouts and headlines and stories for future manipulation into handmade books. And having just read a cool CJR story about one woman's measurement of how much time she spends reading the Times, WaPo, and WSJ each day andan Atlantic story about why news stories are too long these days, I have one other ongoing blogging idea:
I'm going to pit the WaPo against the Times each Sunday. My inkling is that the Times will win easily, but today's WaPo delivered some extremely strong A1 stories that spurred me to give them the nod over the longer, but less exciting Times.
Each Friday Every so often, we share our Web discoveries, mostly pulled from our RSS feeds and Twitter accounts. If there's something we should know about, please write to thesadbear [at] gmail [dot] com.
Pawel Skoczylas, 26, a clerk, said that he had come to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Pilsudski Square to mourn those killed “because I’m a patriot, because I’m a Catholic, because I’m a citizen of Poland, because I’m just a man, a person.”
Their trip started at least 40 minutes from daylight.
The guys known as the "Old Man Crew" had finished their shift digging coal out of Upper Big Branch mine. They walked through its lattice of tunnels to a mantrip, an open-sided cart that runs back to the surface on rails.
There were nine of them in the cart, rolling through semi-darkness. "Head" was the crew boss, whom they ribbed about his giant, rectangular noggin. "Pee Wee" was the new grandfather. Benny was a recovering drinker who beat the bottle with the help of Jesus and a Bowflex machine.
They were smudge-faced miners with decades of experience doing jobs better suited for their sons and nephews. They had become friends in other coal mines, and some had worked together for more than 10 years. Now they worked here, at a high-earning Massey Energy mine.
“We’ve got two cars containing corn syrup, one containing corn meal and two or three mostly empty petroleum cars,” King said. “There is one car with mineral spirits in it, which is essentially turpentine, and if you held a torch to it, it might catch fire, but that's about it."
Each Friday we share our Web discoveries, mostly pulled from our RSS feeds and Twitter accounts. If there's something we should know about, please write to thesadbear [at] gmail [dot] com.
[T]he FAA's Les Dorr, after looking through the database himself, put it to me in an e-mail: "Highway landings are rather more frequent than I would have thought."
At almost every turn at Villa Lorena, animals display indignities suffered at the hands of man. A caiman with a severed limb stretches under the tropical sun. A macaw with a sawed-off beak flutters in its cage. Luís, a cougar who once belonged to a drug trafficker, limps around his cage, the result of having a front leg cut off.
Each Friday we share our Web discoveries, mostly pulled from our RSS feeds and Twitter accounts. If there's something we should know about, please write to thesadbear [at] gmail [dot] com.
Typical women apply about six strokes of mascara per eye. Volume seekers ramp that up to about 30 or 40, then sometimes employ toothpicks, paper clips, pins or the backs of their earrings to poke through the clumps, CoverGirl executives say. "When we asked them why they do this, they blamed their lashes, not their mascara," says Esi Eggleston Bracey, P&G's vice president of global cosmetics, shaking her head. "That's when we knew we had an opportunity."
Jack says: Just found this today while working on that Chamber story. Is this new? I've been playing with it all day. I think we should try and do a post on it, where we basically just fuck around with data for our respective areas.
Each Friday we share our Web discoveries -- culled (if "culled" had a positive connotation) from our RSS feeds and Twitter accounts, etc. If there's something we should know about, please write to thesadbear [at] gmail [dot] com.
A Kansas man sued the Royals earlier this month, alleging that just such a flying sausage struck his left eye, detaching his retina and causing cataracts.
James Summerlott, 27, was hunting pigeons in the backyard of his home on Pembroke-Oak Grove Road around 3:30 p.m. Monday when he noticed an unfamiliar vehicle in his driveway, he told the Kentucky New Era in a phone interview.
Summerlott went inside, carrying his shotgun, and saw his TV lying on the floor. He had left the front door unlocked. A man walked out of his bedroom, and Summerlott held him at gunpoint while Summerlott called 911, said Chris Miller, spokesman for the Christian County Sheriff’s Department.
“He seemed a little frightened, I’ll be honest with you,” Summerlott told the New Era. “I would be too.”
"Among other things, Mr. Gewirtz has learned that Kerouac played an early version of the baseball game in his backyard in Lowell, Mass., hitting a marble with a nail, or possibly a toothpick, and noting where it landed."
From a wild story about Kerouac in the New York Times.
