Don't get it

It's been a week of horrible news for the newspaper industry, and I can't stop thinking -- who dropped the ball?

I miss journalism, but I don't miss the head-in-the-sand approach to the newspaper business. It isn't like nobody saw it coming.

I simply don't get why newspapers are dying, especially in the Bay Area. We have more entrepreneurial talent, more writers, more READERS than practically anywhere in the country.

If journalism is to survive the passing of newspapers, it ought to survive it here. And it's not.

The idea of newspapers going out of business doesn't really concern me. What concerns me is the death of news. The fact is, newspapers are the first source of many, many news events that get picked up by other media like radio, TV, film, and Google. And in this respect, the death of any newspaper, no matter how bad, is concerning.

Because there's nothing taking it's place. OK, we have blogs, social networks. But there's one less organization going after the who, what, where, when, why and how, like only a newspaper can.

One opinionated blogger doesn't have the manpower, objectivity or legal assistance. One TV news report doesn't have the time.

I thought I was done with journalism. Yet I'd be lying if I wasn't secretly thinking about a way to somehow make it work.

Judy's got it

My oldest kids -- Joey, Tanner, and my stepdaughter Marysa -- now all read above their grade level. Like, waaay above their grade level. In fact, Tanner's teacher won't give her more difficult books, because they're too "adult." Whatever. So Tanner reads my motivational books, titles like "The Magic of Thinking Big." Pure cheese, I admit, but totally sex- and violence-free.

It's my own fault. I started to read when I was three, and I held off teaching Tanner... but only until she was four. Marysa was close behind. And both of them taught Joey, who's now in the zillion-page reader club at school, or some such uber-literary nonsense.

Yes, I'm very proud.

So I'm in Bay Books, looking for chapter books -- because it's now all about chapter books with these kids -- and I come across a copy of "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing." Suddenly I'm towel-whipped by nostalgia, along with the notion that Judy Blume is, without a doubt, one of the greatest Americans who ever lived.

I have to admit my initial exposure to Judy Blume sent me into prepubescent male giggle-fits. Looking back, though, "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret" was probably my first exposure to feminism and the idea that girls actually didn't have the world on a string. Seems hokey to say that, but feels true.

"Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" was more up my alley. I didn't have a crazy two-year-old brother named Fudge, but I did have a younger sister who stole all the attention and drove me nuts with Oscar-worthy crying performances and the repeated theft of my Cleveland Browns football helmet.

I'm super-stoked that Tanner and Joey are enjoying this book on their own and finding it particularly relevant, since they actually have a two-year-old brother/monster on their hands who's not so unlike Fudge. I'm also stoked there's still much more Judy Blume where that came from.

Updike

Gonna try to be brief about this but this guy's death needs mentioning.

Count me among those who drank in Updike's portrayals of the sex-centered male existence and, not unlike AC/DC's music, made me feel OK thinking and feeling some of the things I think and feel.
My first encounter with Updike was as a teen reading A&P, which I found confusing and intriguing much in the same way I encountered most adult fiction at the time. What did I miss, I wondered at the time, reading it again and again.

Later on I latched onto the first three Rabbit books, discovering devices for Scene that didn't bore me to tears, as well as a male character who I might not have been friends with but whose soul I could identify. I felt Updike was writing about the inner crud that swirls inside many white men -- particularly those with flimsy cultural backbones and family structures, not unlike myself -- yet who are compelled to "buck up" and march (and sometimes stomp) ahead with our lives, knowing that not all feelings can be spared ... including our own.

Can't say I'm a major student of his work -- not much of a student of any author, in fact. There's just too many good ones to latch on too strongly to any in particular. But I've read enough to know we lost another master.

Kludge

Amazed that I haven't come across this word before, given how much of my life I've devoted to kludging.

From Wikipedia:

A kludge (or kluge) is a workaround, an ad hoc engineering solution, a clumsy or inelegant solution to a problem, typically using parts that are cobbled together.

Kludges are particularly widespread in computer programs, where processing speed is such that they may not make a big difference in performance.

I admit it, I kludge a lot.

I do it as a proposal writer, slapping boilerplate text together in a fashion that answers RFPs and RFQs as quickly as possible.

I've done it as a songwriter, by randoming choosing particular keys and chord constructs, and resurrecting some old, angry high school poetry or mushing a friend's lyrics to fit. Examples include "My Mom's A Bitch," and our ever-popular family ditty, "Pretty Kitty."

I do it as a dad, with magical five-minute meals that look very, um, interesting yet still touch on all the major food groups. If the kids eat at least half and a little bit of everything on their plate, I figure I kludged it pretty good.

Probably the only time I don't kludge when attempting fiction -- but even then, I seem to be digging into wells inside my head for some memory, artifact, or sensation, and then figuring out how to make things work. In fact, my novel, if it's ever complete, will be something of an homage to kludging, since it's coming out in bits and pieces that I have yet to completely assemble. Kind of like creating a human body by starting with the heart, a couple of fingers, an eyelash, some teeth, and a nut.

I'm fairly certain I've heard the word "kludge" before, but can't be totally sure. It's the sort of word in which one instantly discerns its meaning -- which makes it difficult to remember when one first heard it.

Yesterday, when two different co-workers used it, it made me stop and think.

Kludge. K-l-u-d-g-e.

Mmmmmm.

So unchild-free

I'm a 40s male, married, lots of kids. Young kids. I love kids. Even adopted one.

I also, despite better judgement, read Craigslist's rants and raves section ocassionally and see posts about people boasting about "child-free." And looking about the Web, I see entire blogs devoted to preaching non-procreation.

And I can kind of see their collective point -- you don't want to have children for selfish reasons, but by and large, that's exactly why most of us have them. I wonder, though. Is that so bad?

I understand children aren't for everyone. I understand many people have children who shouldn't. I understand many people who might make great parents won't ever have children, for whatever reason. And believe me, I understand the personal benefits of NOT having kids, cause I didn't have kids until I was in my 30s... and before that, man, I had a blast.

But what's the point in making fun of people with kids? Or even worse, demonizing them?

Raising kids is tough, I won't lie. Sometimes it's a real pain in the ass. I'm thankful I have a partner who understands how tough it is, and doesn't give me a hard time about busting out of the house on ocassion. I'm also thankful to have some pretty amazing kids who, for the most part, wake up practically giddy to be alive, which makes me feel pretty giddy to be alive, too.

I do believe this: You can't be a good parent and be a glass-half-empty type -- or be convinced the world is going to hell, or believe that most parents are selfish idiots, or be the least bit suicidal, or too much of a hypocrite (though a certain amount of self-delusion is OK). Point being, you're either an optimist to begin with, or learn quickly to be one, or you're pretty much frakked.

I believe one life CAN be a gift, OR it can be quite less than that. I think there's something instinctive and genetic about keeping the species going, and yet at the same time, absolutely unnecessary.

My personal opinion, however, is that it's kind of neat to keep the party rollin'. If you're up to it, of course. Selfish as that may be.

The Wrestler

It's very good, although I tainted my perception beforehand by listening to a NPR interview with the director, who said he didn't believe Mickey Rourke gave 100 percent. I found myself too focused on this idea, and it didn't help that the ending is sorta hokey.

What was surprising about this movie was how depressing it was. Pro wrestling is a world I know little about -- I wasn't one of those teens who salivated over Wrestlemania of the 80s and its dumbed-up theater for the masses. The Wrestler does show a reality many fans don't see: the washed-up, shot up, broken-wheeled "pieces of meat" its characters can become. Kind of gives you a new respect for guys like Dwayne Johnson, Mick Foley, and to some extent, Hulk Hogan, for at least trying to break out of the box.

I don't think it deserves all the superlatives being heaped on it. But I'll say it again: It's very good. The scenes where Rourke's character, Robin Ramzinsky, "relapses" into wrestling's enticements -- and its consequences -- hits hard.

Old age and bitterness, a weird post

I certainly don't know much about the former, but I know plenty about the latter.

"Is it just me" or are people more bitter these days? It's like, closing in. I can feel it rustle inside me, too.

Is it the economy? Or are these times triggering deeper wounds? I look at myself sometimes and I can't tell.