How Did This Happen?

The question I kept coming back to this past Wednesday as I waited in the lobby of a Florida Job Services office was, "How did I come to this point?"

I was there for an orientation session, part of employment counseling that's required for people who collect unemployment insurance. It was a sobering experience. Every time I start to get numb to the fact that all the work I put in during the past 22 years to build my sports writing career was (apparently) for nothing, something like that orientation session smacks me down again.

But ... we got through it. Just like we'll get through all of it. This is a good spot to drop this year's most popular sports cliche: It is what it is.

Now, I look at the morning news shows and the headlines on the news Web sites and I wonder, "How did the nation come to this point?" I wish I'd paid more attention in ECO 1001 class at the University of Florida in 1989, although I'm not sure this kind of utter economic bewilderment was covered.

What happened to the world? Does anyone know how all of this came to be? Lehman Brothers and the rest ... were all those too-smart-to-fart Wall Street geniuses too short-sighted to see this coming? The dot.com bubble, the housing bubble, 9-11, Iraq, increased gas prices, the rise of China, dwindling oil supply ... it all seems to be connected, somehow, but how?

And was all this macro-economic stuff the reason I lost my job with the newspaper? Was there anything I could have done, in that context, to better prepare our family for our own personal economic downturn? Anything I could have done to prevent myself from becoming unceremoniously unemployed?

Was there anything our country's leaders could have done, can do, about what's happening in the world at large? Anything they can do to keep this country from collapsing?

I wish I knew. I wish anyone knew.

Ah, well. At least the Rays and the Red Sox start a three-game series today that could decide the American League East. Should be quite a hoot.

It's Who You Know

A big part of the ongoing job search is perusing all those Web sites that offer career advice. One of the things I keep coming across is, apparently, job search LAW: To find the job you want, you have to "network."

Now, I understand the truth behind that. I've experienced it. Other than my first job in journalism, a part-time gig with the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel 22 years ago, every meaningful job I've had came to me as a result of a phone call from someone I knew. Of course, the only meaningful job I've had since then was with the Tribune. I got that job when a guy named Ernest Hooper called me and asked if I wanted to apply. Hooper had seen my work with the St. Pete Times and thought I'd be a good fit at the Trib. A month after I was hired at the Trib, we bid a fond farewell to Hooper ... who jumped ship for the Times.

OK. So, I know from experience it's not what you know, it's who you know. Yet, with every fiber of my being I detest that unfortunate truism. It SHOULD NOT be about who you know. It should be ALL ABOUT how well you could perform the tasks inherent to the position in question. Of course, I understand that in order to acquire the position, the candidate must acquire a level of trust from the person doing the hiring. And who do we trust? The people we know.

But that kind of cronyism limits the field, does it not? If I were a hiring manager, I wouldn't want to trim the field based on whether a candidate once went out for beers with me or was a groomsman or bride's maid at the assistant editor's wedding. I'd want the best person I could find. I'd want someone with a proven background of accomplishment. Someone who had demonstrated a high aptitude for the type of work in question.

In other words, the best person available.

That's not how it works, though. If I don't send out e-mails and make phone calls and have lunches with people who might be able to help me land the kind of job I need to support my family, I don't stand a chance in hell of landing that job. I'd rather apply for a position and be allowed to sell myself as the best candidate based on my qualifications, not based on whether I went to school with the executive vice president's nephew.

So, anyway ... I guess I'd better get going on these novels I'm supposed to be writing.

'I Get High On Baby Hugs'

Don't think I'd attend one of this guy's concerts if I happened to be in L.A., but this video is awesome.

My favorite line:
"I'm a stay-at-home dad;
"And I don't take drugs.
"I'm a stay-at-home dad;
"I get high on baby hugs."

Here's the link: Stay At Home Dad rap

Brush With Biden

Last August, during a Rays road trip to Boston, I popped into the Borders bookstore at the busy corner of Washington and School streets around lunchtime. One of the things I love about downtown Boston at lunchtime in the later summer or early fall is the bustle. There's a lot of energy, and not the mechanical, got-to-get-where-I'm-going-RIGHT-NOW kind of directed energy you find at, say, Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street in New York. Boston, especially the old, winding streets bisected by the Freedom Trail, is more like a visit to an outdoor art festival, where the pedestrians wander casually from stall to stall, poking their heads in to see what's cooking.

So, I popped into the Borders on my way to Quincy Market, where I like to cruise the half-mile-long food court and decide between the fresh, boiled lobster and the North End pizza joint (no Sbarro's at Quincy Market). The Borders in the heart of that pedestrian district off Washington Street is larger than most. Not as big, perhaps, as the Borders next to the Water Tower on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, but huge, nonetheless. I browsed my way back to the history section, taking my time; I wouldn't need to be at Fenway Park until three o'clock.

At the back of the store, where the history books are kept, a line of suit-clad bibliophiles stretched from the rear entrance, where a table and chair were set up for what clearly was a book-signing event. The line actually blocked the aisle I wanted to browse, so I remember being a little annoyed. But I found another aisle and tried to ignore the suits.

Then, the line began to move. The author was there. Now, it wasn't a big line. Maybe 30 or 40 people, tops. It didn't take long for the aisle I originally wanted to browse to become accessible again. As I rounded the end of the aisle, I glanced over to see who was signing a book that day. Sitting there, framed by the rear entrance (this old building apparently used to be a bank; next to the rear entrance is an old, round vault door) was Senator (and, at the time, presidential candidate) Joe Biden of Delaware.

My first thought, after taking in the two or three suit-clad security guards (Secret Service?) and the eight or ten suit-clad staff members who milled around so casually was this: This guy's running for president, and the most he can pull to a book signing is 30 or 40 people? There's no way he's getting the nomination. My second reaction was to call Mama Bird back home. She thought Biden was an interesting candidate and considered supporting him early in the campaign. She thought it was cool.

I guess I must've missed the big moment of that particular book signing. I kind of wish I had seen him speak. Especially now that he's been named Barack Obama's running mate.

And as for that, how about the timing of the mass text message announcement? The story I read this morning said it was released by the campaign after the news leaked late Friday night to some news outlet. So, out the texts went, right around ... 3 a.m. I'd like to think it was planned that way all along. Kind of a not-so-subtle way of saying, Take that, Clinton folks!

So, here it all comes: Democratic convention, McCain VP announcement, Republican convention, debates, debates, debates. After all those years of covering sports for a living, politics became my "sports." This is gonna be good.

I've Think I've Forgotten How To Write

Well, it's official. I have no idea how to write. And now that I mention it, I wonder if I ever really knew how.

Right now, I'm at my laptop in the nursery/writing cave. I sit at a half-sized card table ($34.95 at Target; much cheaper than office space or the monthly on-line fees at Barnes&Noble). The table is pushed up against the window. The crib sits behind me to my left. Directly behind me against the opposite wall is the table/dresser where we change our kids' dirty diapers. The blinds are half-open. Through the slats of the blinds I can see the top of the front-yard palm tree blowing around in the baby breezes produced by Tropical Storm Fay on the other side of the state.

To my left are two stacks of books. They include Stephen King's On Writing; the Complete Idiot's Guide to Creative Writing; the Modern Library Writer's Workshop by Stephen Koch; a Writer's Guide to Character Traits; Joseph Campbell's The Hero With a Thousand Faces; Gary Mormino's Land of Sunshine, State of Dreams (a social history of Florida); and a fantasy football magazine (my draft is Saturday; I inherited a team in a neighborhood keeper league and already have Peyton Manning at QB). To my right is Edith Hamilton's Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes, an absolute gold mine for story ideas, plots, characters and themes. Also to my right is an open, spiral-bound notebook that contains the outline of a novel based on college life in the early 1990s and notes for several short stories. A capped rollerball pen (Uni-ball Vision Elite) sits on top of the open notebook.

Quite a literary little setup I've got here, eh? Nothing to keep me from, as some writer somewhere (Raymond Carver, maybe?) once wrote, "opening a vein and letting the story bleed out of me."

OK. So, why don't I write? Either I forgot (or never knew) how, or I'm lazy.

Or, hey. Why not both?

I'm going to go take another gander at journalismjobs.com. I haven't sent out any resume packages to be ignored during the past couple of days.

Is this writer's block? I never knew it really existed. Eh. It's not so bad. It's kind of like trying to mow the lawn with an unsharpened mower blade. You know you've got the right tool, it's just a matter of honing it.

Mimi's Garden

A little boy named Jay lived in Florida. He had blond hair and blue eyes and was two years old. Jay loved to swim in the pool with his Mommy and go for bicycle rides with his Daddy. He liked to chase his cats, Murphy and Luna, all around the house. And he loved to tickle his baby brother, Chris, on the chin.

Jay especially loved to visit Mimi and Granddaddy at their big, white farm house in North Carolina. Mimi always had new toys for Jay to play with, like a talking drum and a little guitar that played real music. Granddaddy would sit in the parlor and play his real guitar and sing while Jay played with his new toys.

One time, after Granddaddy finished singing, Jay left his toys and looked through the glass of the front door at Mimi’s garden. There were so many flowers! Jay wanted to go outside and see the flowers up close. Jay ran to the kitchen and found Mimi, who was just slipping on her garden gloves.

“Mimi?” Jay said. “Go outside? Flowers outside?”

“Of course we can, little Jay Bird” Mimi said. “Do you want to see the flowers?”

“Yes, I want flowers,” Jay said, and reached for Mimi’s hand. “C’mon, Mimi.”

“Wait, Jay,” Mimi said, pulling off her gloves. “We have to find the magic net.”

Jay, who had turned to run back to the front door, stopped and looked back at Mimi.

“Magic net?” he said.

“Yes,” said Mimi. “It’s the net we use to catch butterflies!”

“I want … I want … I want butterflies!” said Jay, waving his arms. “Catch butterflies?”

“Yes,” said Mimi. “But we have to use a special, magic net, so we don’t hurt them.”

Mimi went to the back porch to get the net. Jay was waiting at the front door when she came.

“I want magic net,” said Jay as he reached for the net.

“Here you go, Jay Bird,” Mimi said. “I’ll carry the butterfly bucket, and we can go catch butterflies together.”

Out they went, onto the front porch, into the front yard and down to the ring of flowers that encircled the lawn. Jay saw yellow daffodils and purple crocus and lots of other pink and gold and orange flowers but he did not know their names. Then he saw a giant yellow flower, taller than all the rest, hanging from the end of a long, green stalk.

“Sunflower!” Jay said.

“That’s right,” Mimi said. “And look! There’s a pretty blue butterfly fluttering in for a landing!”

“Blue butterfly?” Jay said. “I get him.”

Jay ran to the sunflower and swung the net as hard as he could at the butterfly. But the blue butterfly flew away from the net. Jay swung again and again. Each time, the butterfly flew just far away enough to stay out of Jay’s net. Each time Jay missed, the butterfly fluttered back to the face of the sunflower and landed safely. Jay began to get frustrated.

“Jay Bird, do you want Mimi to help?” Mimi said.

“Yes, thank you,” Jay said. “Mimi help?”

So, Mimi and Jay held the net together. They snuck up to the sunflower on tiptoe. Mimi helped Jay move the net very slowly over the butterfly. When the butterfly tried to fly away, it fluttered right into the magic net! Mimi pulled the net closed, and the butterfly was caught.

“I got it!” Jay said.

“Let’s put him in the butterfly bucket and get a closer look,” Mimi said.

Mimi opened the clear plastic lid of the butterfly bucket and held the net over the top. The butterfly dropped down into the bucket and Mimi plopped the lid back on.

“Look, Jay Bird,” Mimi said. “You can see the blue butterfly through the top. It’s a magnifying glass, so he looks bigger than real life.”

“Magnifying glass?” Jay said, and looked inside the bucket.

The butterfly gripped the side of the bucket with its legs. It had two blue wings with black spots and black lines on them. It had two eyes and two long sticks, antennae, coming out of its head. It opened and closed its wings very slowly. Jay looked up at Mimi and smiled.

“Big blue butterfly.” Jay said. “I caught him!”

“Yes,” Mimi said. “You caught him. “But now it’s time to let him go. He needs to go back to his sunflower and eat his supper.”

“Eat supper, right,” Jay said.

Mimi smiled and opened the bucket’s lid. The butterfly hesitated, then fluttered out of the bucket and back toward the ring of flowers.

“Bye bye, butterfly!” Jay said. “I eat supper, too?”

“Yes, it’s supper time for Jay Birds, too,” Mimi said.

They climbed the steps and went back inside to tell Mommy, Daddy and Granddaddy all about the big blue butterfly who lived in Mimi’s garden.

A Good Start To The 'Debates'

Mama Bird and I took in most of the Rick Warren question and answer sessions with Barack Obama and John McCain. We concluded that the format was superb. It allowed both candidates to take center stage without the annoying red lights and interruptions from the Wolf Blitzers of the pundit world.

Obama? Smooth, thoughtful, considered in his responses. McCain? Decisive and surprisingly poignant.

A couple of things stood out, and both came during the McCain hour. First, I hadn't heard that a $7,000 tax credit for each child was a part of his platform. That's huge. Possibly even mind-changingly huge. He might not know much about the economy, and his archaic stances on most social issues are either pandering to his Republican base or an alarming display of just how out of touch he is with what's actually happening in U.S. society.

But that $14,000 Mama Bird and I would receive (assuming it passed through Congress) would be ... well, huge. It would go a long way toward paying daycare expenses, something the current $2,500 credit barely effects.

The other thing was McCain's story about a Vietnamese prison guard loosening torture ropes on McCain's body, then, at Christmas, using a foot to draw a cross in the dirt in front of McCain during a rare moment outdoors. I'm not a Christian, but that story was a stirring example of two human beings connecting in even an outrageously inhuman circumstance.

Still, though, McCain got me going when he started talking about irresponsible government spending over the past eight years. The most irresponsible expense we as a nation bear at the moment is the Iraq war. He supports it, therefore he supports spending billions of dollars a week in that enterprise. Bottom line? An extra $9,000 in tax savings would be nice, but the Bird and the Mouse would be much better served in the long run by not having to foot the bill for today's political mistakes. Like Iraq.

Oh, and the big number for the evening was 14. That was how many times I counted McCain using his favorite rhetorical crutch: "My friends ..."