David Erik Nelson's Blog, page 43
June 5, 2012
June 4, 2012
The Demise of the Local Daily Print Paper vs. the Demise of Local Integrity
The publisher of the Ann Arbor Chronicle has written a long piece on how reporting is being fundamentally undermined at conglomerate-owned local papers as they shift "business models." It's worth your read.
The skinny: AnnArbor.com--the online "newspaper" for Ann Arbor, MI (home of the University of Michigan and its irascible footballing Wolverines; also my home)--won a 2011 Michigan Associate Press Award for an "investigative" piece on firetruck response times in Ann Arbor, the gist of which was "Whoa! These response times are *way too long!*" When that piece was published--long before anyone got nominated for anything--the folks at the Ann Arbor Chronicle took one look at these numbers, noticed that AnnArbor.com's reporter had *read them entirely wrong*, re-reported the mess, and demonstrated that the response times were just fine. They raised the issue with the AnnArbor.com reporter and the "newspapers" chief content officer (i.e., "editor")--a cat named Tony Dearing--only to discover that neither really gave a crap that they were completely wrong.
But Dearing’s accounting of AnnArbor.com’s errors is misleading and incomplete – in part because it fails to take responsibility for obvious reporting mistakes, blaming sources instead.
In that respect, Dearing’s column continues a pattern of disingenuous communication by AnnArbor.com with the community it purports to serve.
I realize there’s a certain etiquette I’m violating in calling out the leadership of another publication in this way. What I hear on a regular basis about the community’s perception of the quality of reporting and editorial oversight at AnnArbor.com ranges from idle snark to complete outrage. But our Midwestern culture exerts a firm pressure to make nice and get along. And for some community members, a certain fatigue has set in, along with a sense that it’s not worth the energy to rehash these things – it’s time to move on. To some extent I actually agree with that. It would be nice to move on.
But a polite culture and need to look forward do not justify turning away from some real problems with AnnArbor.com’s basic approach to community service. That’s especially true as the Newhouses roll out the Ann Arbor model in other markets.
What’s more, given the marketing resources of AnnArbor.com’s New York-based owners, there’s a risk that a funhouse-mirror version of reality will become accepted as accurate, and could inappropriately influence public policy in a way that causes long-term damage to this community. That’s unacceptable.
As an aside, this totally meshes with my experience of AnnArbor.com and Dearing. Soon after the site's launch (it replaced our 174-year-old local print daily, The Ann Arbor News in 2009) I raised some concerns with the paper over an article that was 1) under a misleading byline, because it was 2) more than 85 percent copy-pasted from an AP Wire story, and 3) the three paragraphs of actual local "reporting" each contained substantive errors that 4) I was able to personally clear up in five minutes. I ended up conversing over email with Dearing. He was really remarkably pleasant and disingenuous, and it was really clearly implied that that he did not give a crap about clarity or accuracy at his paper. As I spoke with former News and then-current AnnArbrp.com employees, my impression of the operation wasn't improved. The paper has basically devolved into a press-release reprinting service. The very best thing I can say about AnnArbor.com is that they are, as an organization, extraordinarily lazy.
(DISCLOSURE: I read and write for the Ann Arbor Chronicle. It's a long-winded paper, and the publication schedule isn't so frequent as AnnArbor.com, but they have a tremendous amount of integrity and pay a fair wage. If you want to know what the hell is going on in town on the regular--especially in local government--they are basically the only place to go.)
Anyway, why does this matter outside of Ann Arbor? Because AnnArbor.com is owned be the Newhouse family, who are now rolling out this "model" for running a newspaper nationwide, including at the previously sterling New Orleans Times-Picayune. The argument about the import of the transformation of local news has bizarrely centered around how old people get coupons--an obsession with the *format* itself, with the experience of a locally-written bundle of tree-pulp hitting your stoop every morning. But the delivery mechanism isn't the problem. Here in Ann Arbor we have a *super literate* population with an abnormally high rate of web access. Our kindergartners can read a local paper (not kidding; my kid is in kindergarten at what is basically a Title I public school; his class is reading and writing). This is why Newhouse tested out their new model here: It's a best-case scenario.
We didn't suffer because the news was no longer being delivered on paper; we suffered because the local paper of record entirely discarded any notion of integrity or responsibility to the community. They now produce a moderately crappy blog whose comment section is basically a platform for right-of-center hate-mongering. Meanwhile, the Chronicle--which has never been distributed on wood pulp--does an incredible job on a tight budget using the revolutionary technologies of looking things up, talking to people, and *writing shit down.* AnnArbor.com's problem isn't that they largely got rid of the paper, it's that they've largely gotten rid of the *reporters.*
June 1, 2012
Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #124 (published March 6, 2003): "Brought to you by Mellissa Williams"
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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #124 (published March 6, 2003)
Brought to you by Mellissa Williams
Giant Squid: Notes From The Giant Squid: Brief Notes on That Which is Published this Week by the Giant SquidGentle Readers,
Since taking the helm of this strange ship-of-craft, it is my enduring delight to share with you, the Greater Surface World in the Searing Up, the literary flotsam and jetsam which comes passing my way, gently fished from the roiling, black-mirror-ish sea-surface by my own tentacles, lovingly cleaned and proudly displayed, so as to increase and en-greaten the general low folly of la vida mundial. This I do for you, taking it as much my vocation (almost spiritual) and at least a responsibility sober and true.
This week's fictional display is provided by our own dear Fritz Swanson, a gentle boy of 26. His "Press Conference in an Apple Grove" details not only the simple matters of love and mating— of boundless fascination to me, as a species of armchair anthropologist— but also the greater passion that man has for impregnating the Moon . . .
Fiction: Press Conference in an Apple Grove by Fritz Swanson"You may have noticed," said the old and tired astronaut, "I have placed a great deal of value on my getting to the moon." He shifted his feet and gripped the podium with both hands. There was sweat all over his face. "It is true; I have elevated that goal far beyond the degree that is its due. I have done silly things, wrong things, sinful things, in the pursuit of that goal."
A woman in the front row threw an apple at the old astronaut, and it struck dully against his forehead. He paid the missile little mind, only nodding a bit in the woman's direction, smiling a half-smile.
"My Ex-Mother-in-Law, ladies and gentlemen." He smiled and raised a hand to indicate the woman who had thrown the apple. . . .
Poetry: The Ibis (from Mommy, part 4 of 5) by Barry BlumenfeldI search my hard heart,
Mommy, the desert
In your breast. You can
Go now, go. Ibis
Gaggles skein across
The moon. . . .
Rant: Remarks Concerning the Savages of North America by Benjamin FranklinSavages we call them, because their manners differ from ours, which we think the perfection of civility; they think the same of theirs.
Perhaps, if we could examine the manners of different nations with impartiality, we should find no people so rude, as to be without any rules of politeness; nor any so polite, as not to have some remains of rudeness. . . .
My Fellow Humans: Can't you see we're playing with fire here?
In Rat Experiment, New Hope for Spine Injuries - NYTimes.com
The rats then began a daily regimen. Outfitted with tiny vests, held upright on their back legs but left to bear their full weight, the rats tried to move toward a piece of cheese that beckoned nearby. They lurched forward like furry paratroopers, unsteady on their feet after a hard landing.
It's actually pretty rad research, and worth watching Frenchie explain it in the embedded video, plus you get to watch the cyborat climb stairs--presumably preparatory to raiding an al-Qaida safehouse somewhere in Yemen.
(FYI, the writer--Benedict Carey--has allowed himself several figurative flourishes on par with the pull quote above. Look out for brain-as-army and Chia Pet analogies.)
May 25, 2012
Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #509 (published October 21, 2010): "The narc at the party"
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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #509 (published October 21, 2010)
The narc at the party
Giant Squid: Ask the Giant Squid: Giant Squid LIVE! by the Giant Squid
Dear Giant Squid,
Has any one seen a live giant squid before?
My Anonymous Aficionado,
As a matter of established fact, none have seen me perform live, a reality which much vexes me. I had contracted to perform upon the brick-wall-backdroppéd stage of Mark Ridley, his Comedy Castle this very approaching Sunday's after-noon. Preparatory to this, I had done a great deal of research both wide and deep throughout the Internet, as well as via the books-mobile reserve system of the Detroit Public Library (which, as it turns out, is well stocked of the humor manuals penned by Mr.s Thomas Biracree and Julius Alvin throughout the last two decades of the twentieth century—a period that, as evidenced by the comedic and dramatic works of Andrew Eurydice Clay and Samuel Langhorn Kinison, to name but a pair, represents a high-water mark in the forging and crafting of quality humors). Sadly, I now report that in the early part of this week loathsome complication befell me, resulting in cancellation of this established live appearance, and an indefinite hiatus in my live comedic recitations. . . .
Fiction: The Jar by Gwendolyn Joyce MintzMama was on her knees, leaning into the space under the kitchen sink, glass jars on the floor surrounding her.
Was she getting ready to start canning? Curious, I sat cross-legged on the floor and waited.
She leaned back, a jar in hand which she held up, examined. She sighed.
"All these jars and none's bigger than a mite." She glanced at me. "We're gonna put one on the counter at your daddy's store. Take up a collection to help pay the lawyers for Roy and J.W." She grunted. "Defense lawyers." She shook her head and returned to her search. . . .
Poetry: For You (After Catullus 1) by Arthur D. CasciatoTo whom address, which brand affix,
Whose name to slap on such as this,
How curry favor with words so libelous,
My slim-slimey miscellany hot off the press . . .
Rant: Diversity by Sue EllisIn late summer, tree frogs morph into window clings, attracted by the bugs who spiral around the porch light that shines outside my kitchen window. . . .
May 23, 2012
May 21, 2012
Last Suppers and Folks Killing Folks for Killing Folks
Running Chicken: This photo series — “No Seconds” by Henry...
A good while back my old friend Ari Kohen wrote about Henry Hargreaves's “No Seconds” (sampled above)--a series of photographs of the last meals of various American death-row inmates.
I don't agree with Kohen on his analysis of Hargreaves's art--which I believe should be judged foremost on its aesthetic, not moral, value--but Kohen's points on capital punishment are worth your time, because they are grounded in both solid reasoning *and* meaningful personal experience. I really, really strongly suggest reading the post at that second link, which concludes:
Ronnie Frye’s death was meant to bring some measure of comfort to the victims of his crime, the family of Ralph Childress. Perhaps it did; I know Ronnie sincerely hoped that it would. But it also created another innocent, grieving family: Ronnie’s. As I have written a great many times on this blog over the past couple of years in one way or another, the death penalty is not a solution to the problem violence; it is violence. I know this from first-hand experience; it is not theoretical or abstract to me.
Incidentally, in the course of his argument Kohen happens to mention my favorite pet cause: If folks are going to argue that a woman needs to see a detailed fetal ultrasound prior to terminating a pregnancy, then a jury should certainly see childhood photos of any actual living, breathing, participating human being before burdening some other living, breathing human beings with slaughtering that person. Everyone is some mother's son. If we can't stomach that, then we've got no business cutting folks down. If we *can* stomach it . . . well, then maybe you should be setting aside the childhood pic of you that you want shown prior to your execution. I'm going with this one:
May 18, 2012
Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #419 (published January 29, 2009): "Be honest. The future won't depend on shit."
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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #419 (published January 29, 2009)
Be honest. The future won't depend on shit.
Giant Squid: Ask the Giant Squid: To Knit, Perchance to Dream; Aye, There's the Rub by the Giant Squid. . .
To All of My Knit-Bewitched Mojonauts,
These are but a very small sampling of the many missives electronique I have received in the three-and-three-thirds years since I first showcased the quick-knitted-wit of my dearest Sara Swanson and her noble knitted squid hat for infants and the consuming of cats' crania, as pictured below:
Today, I am proud to announce that finally, finally, we are well prepared to sate the hunger of those many, many stitchwomen looking to knit a net of architeuthic splendor to ensconce and ensorcle the heads of the very important adults in their lives (including, but not limited to, themselves). . . .
Fiction: Whiteman's Blood by Onyenezi Chika Victor. . . We called it Porto Kiri, they called it Fernando Po. That's were I set out early to prove a point in my life. Maybe to prove a point to my beloved Adaure. She was the loveliest of all fruits in the largest of all trees; succulent and stunning. My village, Umuaki, was the largest village among the six clans, that's why the old men described it as okeosisi, big tree. In this big tree a beautiful fruit hung, every passerby wants to pluck this fruit including the Whiteman in our town, the district officer. We called him Nwadishi. He drive a beetle, a Volkswagen car. Children would happily pursue Nwadishi's car just to touch it—then you could hear them shouting in Ibo, "Emeturum moto Nwadishi aka" ("I touched Nwadishi's car.") Then it was the first car to set its foot in Umuaki. . . .
Poetry: Fleas in the Thatch by Nadine GalloThey say fleas used to
be an awful bother to people
in the thatched houses.
You wouldn't need an alarm
clock to get you out of bed . . .
Rant: Tallest of Allest by Doug MathewsonWhen I was kid nobody seemed as tall as a cowboy. The cowboys I admired changed as I grew up, from Roy Rogers singing on the range to Clint Eastwood delivering harsh retribution. I knew nothing about sports, but was astonished by how Michael Jordon flew, arching higher and higher in magnificent flight. Latter heroes loomed large to me as rock-and-roll giants. They delighted me with their music, cleaver lyrics, and brilliant shows. Giants they were, till I encountered someone larger by far.
I was in Manhattan, headed for a gallery opening downtown. Tower Records in Times Square projected a moving image eight stories high of Jay-Z walking majestically and confidently, striding out of a fog-filled back ground, Savile Row overcoat slung over Armani shoulders, his penetrating eyes looking at, and then through, me. A completely over-powering image, commanding and compelling. . . .
May 17, 2012
Me & Mitt, Mitt & I: Pranksters, Bullies, Mormons, Jews, Education--AMERICA!
I continue to write a monthly column for the Ann Arbor Chronicle. This latest installment is about the school Mitt Romney and I attended, bullying, pranks, progress, identity politics, and how institutions seek to change over time. It starts like this:
Mitt Romney and I went to the same high school – three decades apart. This would be immaterial, except the Washington Post just published a fascinating 5,500-word remembrance of Mitt Romney’s hijinks at Cranbrook, a high-pressure prep school in Bloomfield Hills, Mich.
I attended this same school in the 1990s; it’s an architectural gem, the staff is excellent, the program an academic crucible. Later, as a University of Michigan student, I shared a broken-down house with three fellow Cranbrook alums. One was in a sociology class, and we were delighted when he revealed that his textbook listed Cranbrook as “one of the last vestiges of American aristocracy.”
Because Mitt and I attended Cranbrook exactly 30 years apart, we ended up standing back-to-back on a balmy June evening in 2005 – the same year Mitt received the school’s 2005 Distinguished Alumni Award. The governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and I stood together at the lip of a deep, inset fountain, which gurgled contentedly, almost as though it was whispering ♪♫Daaaaave, I would be an excellent place for a GOP splaaashdown!♫
The rest is here: The Ann Arbor Chronicle | In it for the Money: Mitt and Me
