Glad that's over

What a week. It was a long one. Several big stories. Went to an evening business function, a panel discussion about the state of global competition followed by a wine and cheese reception. I hate those things. I am so notoriously bad at working a room. Give me a quite cafe and a couple of friends and I could talk all night. But stick me in a packed hall with tiny plates and tiny snacks and tiny conversation and I want to hide. Stuck foot in mouth at least once. Had trouble trying to balance a plate of food while shaking hands. High point? Running into the president of my alma mater, who remembered me. But his method of asking about my family was "You're still married, right?" So I guess I'm not the only one suffering from social awkwarditis. And he must go to these meet-and-greets all the time.

Oh no, shameless self promotion (again)

It's that time. Time to watch me on TV news again. Follow the link to today's story about hospitals, then click on the WREX-13 interview. See if you can spot the incident TV critics refer to as "the earpiece-wire fiasco."

Wish I'd thoughta that

Last week I went to a doctor at a sleep disorder clinic, a place where I slept last month while they tracked all my vitals. After spending 20 minutes with the doctor discussing the state of the healthcare system in the U.S. (we got off track), he told me that I did not have sleep apnea. The reason I was tested is because I am tired all the time during the day. His suggestion? Try getting some more sleep.
Wow. I don't know why I didn't think of that. I guess when someone in a white coat with letters after his name tells you to get some sleep, you believe them. So it's been 9 p.m. to bed for the last few days, asleep by 10 o'clock. TEN O'CLOCK! I feel like I'm 12 years old again. Of course, I don't feel like a mummy when I wake up in the morning, so this doc may be on to something. With that in mind, I'm off to bed.

Everything happens for a reason

I was listening to an interesting story on NPR this afternoon about a fortune-telling talk show where listeners call in with a question about their lives and the deejay picks a random CD and puts it on shuffle so everyone hears a random song. Then the deejay, Andras Jones, interprets what the song means to the callers' questions. It's called Radio8Ball and the report was kind of humorous. While Jones certainly has his tongue planted firmly in his cheek at times, he does take the divinations seriously. He believes in a sort of "synchronicity," a harmonizing force in the universe that makes the random songs correspond to the listeners' situations. He hoped that his show would help others "get a sense that right now what's happening at this moment is exactly what should be happening at this moment."
It struck me how this popular fatalism lite is viable only within our consumer culture. No one but affluent white Americans could honestly believe it; our biggest crises involve choosing what house to buy or where to send our children to school.
Try telling a Sudanese Christian who just fled his village after the Jingaweit burned his home down, raped his wife and terrorized his children that it's "exactly what should be happening at this moment."

A public service announcement

Today we published a story in our section about the new E. Coli 'n Spinach dish that's taking the culinary world by storm. And bringing a nasty, sometimes fatal, illness with it.
We ran the accompanying shot of a cafe employee by photographer Alan Leon. I worked several years in restaurants and thought nothing of picture, but several readers called in to express their disgust because the cook isn't wearing gloves.
Huh.
If you've never worked in a commercial kitchen, you may be under the impression that the people who handle your food are hermetically sealed into latex body suits and the kitchen is a perfectly sterile environment, preventing any possibility of contamination. Sorry to break it to you, but nobody is wearing gloves when they chop your onions, trim your steak or peel your potatoes. Only Subway "sandwich artists" do that, and that's because you're watching them. There's no law about wearing gloves. In fact, Illinois sanitation rules only prohibit employees from spitting or sneezing on the food and require them to wash their hands "thoroughly in clean water" after using the toilet. The law doesn't even say anything about using soap.
So plenty of good, clean and safe kitchen workers have managed to avoid killing people despite using their bare hands.
Just thought you should know.

Tummy shots

Katie Tuck is pregnant. If you know who Katie is, you already knew that. But here's a picture of her that she posted today over on Xanga. Soon there will be another Tuck progeny in the world: Hazen Henry the III. With a name like Hazen, you've got to keep it rollin'.

Everybody knows me, but is it a good thing?

Working as a newspaper reporter in my hometown is a strange experience. Previously, I've always covered towns that I knew nothing about before working there. Nobody knew me and I didn't know anybody either, so it was a blank slate. Now, I can hardly go anywhere for my job without running into someone and being reminded of my past selves that I'd forgotten or hoped to avoid.
Earlier this week I went to an insurance agent's office for an interview about Life Insurance Awareness Month (yeah, I know, but it's a paycheck) and he knew my parents. He turned out to be the father of two twins I used to attend church with.
Then, today, I went to pick up my car from the body shop and I recognized the woman behind the counter. Her name was Jenny, she was the younger sister of a woman I dated after high school, Carrie. She was the closest thing I ever had to a "serious girlfriend" before I met my wife. After college, she went on to teach the very same English classes that we shared in high school and she got married several years ago. Jenny informed me that Carrie just had her first baby in July. His name is Will. I was happy for her and I kind of wanted to meet him. But it all seemed very weird.
So, here's my best Elton John voice: "The cirr-cul of liii-fe"

All things in moderation

So it's official, I'm back on the sauce. Not that sauce. The brown stuff. I had another few cups over breakfast with a source this week. Maybe I can maintain this low-grade caffeine flow and refrain from consuming mass quantities. Yeah, right. As a recovering alcoholic, I ought to know better than to think I can stave off the addiction that has forced me to maintain a consistent intake of coffee all day long.

Full cup again

I finally had a full cup of coffee. For obvious reasons, when I was told to chase down a story today, I really wanted a decent cup of coffee to fuel me. Unfortunately, all I had was the garbage we get for free at work. So I just poured artificial creamer and sugar into it until it tasted like one of those cappucheapos you get out of a fountain at the gas station. Drinkable form of caffeinated liquid, but bears little resembles to coffee.

No more teeter totters

Nicholas and I went to a huge playground next to the Speedway today and found a great piece of equipment: a kiddie climbing wall. (Hey, they didn't have this stuff when I was a kid!) I climbed up to the top, then pulled him up. He thought it was great fun, but he was a little nervous up there. Little did I know...

Sneaky little devil

So after our fun on the wall, we went back to the playground and I sat down on a picnic bench. Of course, like most parks, you can't see the entire thing from one vantage point, so I'd catch glimpses of Nicholas through the playground's wooden slats every few moments. I lost sight of him behind a giant jungle gym, but didn't think anything of it. At first. Of course, when you can't see a 3-year-old for more than 30 seconds, it's trouble. You can see what he was doing.

Making way

Of course, the rock wall was on the other side of the park. I'm not one of those freakout parents who runs around behind their toddler to making sure they don't take risks (because if Meegan or I were, we'd be apoplectic all the time). But still, this was an 8-10 foot climbing wall. So I jog over to make sure he can find the footholds. Of course, by the time I cross the playground, he's already halfway up what he called "the mountain."

Keep on truckin'

Despite my over-protective intentions, Nicholas doesn't need my help at all. He's almost to the summit. So I just started shooting cell phone pictures.

Rear view

Almost there... Uff. Just one more push.

The summit

And now, here he is, a pint-sized Sir Edmund Hillary.

Party like its 1995

Went to a barbecue tonight at a coworker's apartment building. Backyard had a nice patio so we ate the spread out there. Until it started to rain, then we moved everything into the garage. It reminded me of the parties we used to have when I was younger: just a bunch of people in a cramped space, any excuse to throw a party. But mostly that was because of beer.