On the second page of the Times today is a story about the warring factions among the media at the Syria peace talks in Geneva. It made me giggle that even in a “respectable” journalistic endeavor as war and peace the media can act like babies just as the sports media does.
My only journalistic experience comes in sports, and usually it’s very calm and sedate. On a team’s beat, you see the same people and develop relationships with them. You quickly get a sense of what certain people want. For instance, the tv people want the easy soundbite so we usually let them go first and get out of the way. If certain folks like TJ Simers comes along, then you want to get your question in as quickly as possible before he goes off on one of his cross-examinations (although they can be highly amusing at times.)
But then there are the abnormal days, such as when a scandal erupts or the team is in the playoffs. While fun, those days can be spent trying to jockey for position, talk over people to get your question in, having to use elbows and quite possibly having your cuss-out being aired on live television.
I hated the two times the Vancouver Canucks played the Kings in the playoffs. I really got a sense as to why Canadians hate Vancouverites — they’re whiny, think the whole world is conspiring against them and are just plain cunts. In the hallway outside of the dressing rooms at Staples Center, the CBC crew broadcasting the series in 2010 blocked the middle of the hallway so they can do their on-air postgame interviews. Meanwhile the dressing rooms were opening to the media, and we could not get past the tv crew in order to get to the Kings’ room.
The whole lot of us were grumbling about it to which I just shouted blindly, “Can you guys fucking move?” To be honest, I don’t know if that was aired on CBC, but I didn’t care. Soon thereafter the seas parted, and we were able to get into the Kings’ room albeit tardily and resigned at the back of these scrums.
I’ve been lucky to not have been hit in the noggin by a camera or elbowed away (though I have had to throw some elbows with the Vancouver media.) Other people weren’t quite so fortunate, especially my media sisters. For some unknown reason, they take the brunt of the abuse in these scrums. I just don’t know why. I can’t imagine it!
I guess hearing about the shenanigans at the UN gives me a sense of comfort that it isn’t only sports that is chaotic.
By the way, the above is probably one of the few photos of a media scrum I have taken in my years doing this. Most of the time I was busy doing my job. Also I hated when the Boston Red Sox media came to town. What a bunch of sniveling sanctimonious shitheads.
The only reason I really look forward to my birthday is that I get time off from work and that I usually rent an Airbnb out in the middle of the desert in the Joshua Tree vicinity with a pool, hot tub, and no one around for 5 acres. So here I am in Landers (or a bit away from it really) whose claim to fame was that it was the epicenter of a 7.3 earthquake in 1992 just hours before a separate 6.5 earthquake centered in Big Bear hit on a Sunday morning. Wild stuff.
I arrived here yesterday, and on the way had to stop to get gas. Since this stupid fucking illegal war with Iran has driven gas prices sky high again, I’ve mostly been back on public transit again because, fuck that. There I was at the Arco station jaw agape as the $30 went to $40 and on up until it landed at $72 for 13 gallons of gas. Yes, the “cheap” gas.
I’m going to be spending most of the time in or around the pool trying to finish Schattenfroh by Michael Lentz. I’m at around page 604, so I have about 400 more pages to go. I’ll be honest — I have no fucking clue what’s going on in the book. It’s a slow, slow read and demands your attention but not in a painstaking way. It’s a very enjoyable read, but I honestly don’t know how we get from one part to the next. Instead of trying to make sense of it, I’m just riding the wave, going where it’s taking me and try to make sense of it later.
I’ve started working on a couple of things with myself and hope to get better at as I begin my 48th year on this planet: I have started to journal more. It’s the most mundane scatterbrained thing. I hope it doesn’t cause someone’s head to explode when they go through my journals after I’m dead. (How cute. I think I have any importance that people will actually read what I write rather than just dispose it like they should.)
I need to curb my YouTube addiction. I don’t watch tv shows. I don’t watch sports all that much. I don’t use TikTok. I only doomscroll through Facebook at 3 am after I have woken up to take a piss. I am no longer perpetually online. But I will sit down and waste hours upon hours watching YouTube videos. I really need to get that in check.
That’s all I’ve got. Overall, I’m not happy, but I’m not completely depressed. Let’s just call it nonplussed. For someone who feels like a stranger in his own country, I guess that’s about as good as we can hope for.
Occasionally, after reading certain books, when his disgust for daily life became particularly marked, he longed for the lenitive hours immersed in a cloister…
There is just a clause in the above sentence in the first chapter for J.-K. Huysman’s The Damned (Là-Bas) that really stuck out to me: “when his disgust for daily life became particularly marked.”
I had to go back to work today after two weeks off. The first week I did a road trip that culminated in being in a cabin for two days in Choteau, Montana that had a hot tub. It was nice to sit in the hot jets while it was 18F (-8C) outside. Then I meandered my way home before just doing nothing for the second week. Just sitting with my cats, sleep, and tell myself I was going to mop my floors before doing none of that.
After these weeks of doing a whole bunch of nothing, to my horror it was time to go back to work. The dread of walking into my office which I liken to a monkey cage at the zoo, plugging in my laptop and opening Outlook. Emails filled with complaints. That was the dread that was inside of me.
So I get it when Huysman’s protagonist Durtal has a “disgust for daily life.” It’s certainly reassuring that not a lot has changed over the last 130 or so years.