blognarian

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away – or at least about a year ago in Cambridge, MA – I decided I needed a mental scratch pad to keep me writing while I was away on fellowship.

That was then. This is now. I’m a working drone again, which means no more fantasy life of auditing classes at Harvard and getting paid to not work for a year. (Seriously. They didn’t want us to work. At all). It was damn nice while it lasted.

The job? I can’t complain. I get to write about film and books. Sure newspapers are dying but hey, it’s taking a while. In Ticket parlance, I like my gig. The question is whether I’ll still want to blog while I’m back to writing for a living and trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

Please join me as I find out. Now let’s see if I still remember how to save a post…

Phew. Fellowship over. I start teaching Harvard Summer School in 3 weeks. Back to work for The Dallas Morning News. Just got from Book Expo America.

And now I remember what work is like. Darn, I missed it so.

Before I moved East my knowledge of black ice was confined to the bus crash that killed Metallica bassist Cliff Burton. Then I started hearing the locals talk about the stuff in Cambridge. You can even buy spiky things called Yak Tracks that click onto the bottoms of your boots to give you traction on the deadly scourge.

I’ve never used ’em, but I’m about to start. This afternoon, as I was doing a massive newspaper recycling haul behind my apartment, I strutted from the bins to the dumpster, lost in random thought, to dispose of some plastic paper baggies. Before I knew what happened I was flat on my arse. Never saw the infamous black ice coming. Just looked like plain old asphalt to me, which is why it’s so evil. It’s not black of course, just transparent, hence pretty much invisible. (My girlfriend pointed out the irony of an environmental phenomenon zapping me in the course of my helping the environment. Life can be so casually cruel).   

I landed tailbone first, followed by the back of my noggin. I’m such a hoops freak that the first thing I thought of was a basketball player losing control and falling to the floor, his head bouncing off the hardwood at an odd angle. Ka-boing.

Anyway, I have a sore back, an impressive knot on my head and some Motrin to keep the muscles relaxed. Apparently it’s been a bad week for this out here: my landlord fell on Monday, also on his back, and the pharmacist who filled my prescription took a tumble just a couple of days ago. It seems the rain-to-temperature ratio has been less than ideal this week: the water on the ground re-freezes as soon as the ice melts (a highly scientific explanation, I know).  Sidewalks and walkways usually covered with snow or slush are instead coated in thin layers of ice.       

So, as they used to say on Hill Street Blues, be careful out there. It’s the stuff you can’t see coming that will get you in the end.  

Journalism is full of gargantuan egos, breaking the seams of reporters who find it necessary to act like they know how good they are. But most of the best ones don’t need to strut. When you can walk it you don’t need to talk it.

Mike Maza, my first-ever editor in this rapidly sinking newspaper game, died Sunday night after a typically stoic battle with cancer. Mike hated flowery prose and excess verbiage so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet.

I came to the Dallas Morning News in May 1996 as a callow and ambitious clerk for the Guide section, overseen at the time by Mike. He knew I was itching to write full-time. And he could tell I was a lousy Guide clerk, overwhelmed by small details and computer code. Mike didn’t read me the riot act or try to put me in my place. He took me to lunch and laid it out in simple terms: I know you have bigger plans. I know you don’t like this work. But right now I need you to do it as well as you can. And I did. I had no choice. It was Mike.

He was patient and kind but completely uninterested in how much we all respected him. He’s probably the best line editor I have worked with, and I have worked with some great ones. He did quietly stellar work editing theater and fine arts coverage, but my most enduring Maza memory comes from his duties as dining editor. Some irate restaurateur had Mike on the phone for over an hour, griping about this review detail or that, trying to get a pound of flesh from a middle manager. Mike was a rock. He answered every question, most of them more than once. He barely raised his voice. He was just having a long conversation with a guy that needed to vent. When he finally hung up the phone everyone within earshot stood up and cheered.

When I emailed Mike last week to ask about his health he once again laid it out in simple terms: “No news is good news.” Then, this morning, came the bad news.

Be well, Mike. We’re still cheering for you.

Mr. Bartley’s is widely considered one of the best lunch options in Harvard Square. With apologies to Jules from Pulp Fiction (and, by extension, Big Kahuna), they make a tasty burger, many actually, with cute names in honor of various politicians and public figures. Example: “THE TED KENNEDY -a plump, liberal amount of burger with cheddar cheese, mushrooms and french fries.” Funny, that.

Lines outside the door aren’t uncommon when the weather is nice. But the food is just one of the reasons I go there.

I also dig the studied rudeness.

They’ve got the “you’re lucky we’re here to serve you” approach down to a science at Mr. Bartley’s. It’s in the way the cashier (you pay upfront after eating) looks down his nose and mutters “we don’t split checks” (to which my response on my own Bad Mood Day was “I don’t leave tip”). It’s in the way a greeter suggests you have a seat at the cramped bar space, right where you can hear the wait staff shout orders in your ear (“I got a Michelle Obama and a chili fries!”). It’s in the “get out of my way as a I bump you aside” demeanor of the waitresses, and in the narrow aisles. Today I saw a waiter suggest to a guy on crutches that he the take the long way around to a table rather than wade through the counter traffic and perhaps suffer another accident.

Mr. Bartley’s is like Dick’s Last Resort, except they don’t have to advertise their service with a sneer. They’re way too cool for that. In shot it’s a microcosm of every brusque East Coast stereotype you’ve ever heard, served with seven ounces of choice beef. And It reminds us that not everything about Harvard is genteel and laced with ivy.

Oh yeah. I have a blog. I have cruelly neglected it. Locked it in the basement and fed it cold porridge and White Lightning. Will it forgive me?

At least I can claim genuine schedule mass. Three full-time classes (African American Humor, Black Nationalism and Af Am 10, a survey class that co-professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. calls “Blackness 101”). Seven hours per week committed to official fellowship activity, including time with lots of fascinating (and a few overbearing) guest speakers. A colloquium here, a panel there (saw Ken Burns, Stanley Crouch and others discuss images of race in Burns’ documentaries last week). Obsessive election poll checking. A burgeoning role with the Nieman Journalism Lab. And, last but certainly not least, lots of important drinking with my jolly good Fellows.

Eh, who am I kidding. I’m just a lazy blogger. An Analog Kid (great Rush song, btw) trying to get up to speed in a digital age. Wish me luck.