Watching Trump's outbursts on CNN, I suspect this man has become seriously unhinged. His sanity has always been questionable, but lately he seems to have completely lost whatever semblance of normalcy he had.
It would seem we have entered an extremely dangerous period. Trump has disrupted our relationships with our closest allied while pursuing talks with dictators.
He's in way over his head, which means we are too.
-30-
Sunday, June 10, 2018
Friday, June 08, 2018
Days Off
Taking my third straight day off from work, which I do not think I have ever done before in the past 52 years of working.
But the luxury of it feels good -- I suppose this is what retirement would feel like. Not having to endure the depredations of bosses who don't know anything about what they are doing and are only pursuing their own egocentric agendas. But I'll never know retirement.
Did I tell you that I now hate my job? I am old, frail and perfectly happy just watching TV and movies. But I have to get up every workday and go to the office just to earn a paycheck.
My teams won two Emmys last weekend. As usual, I was not there at the ceremony; I eschew such events.
I was verbally abused by my supposed supervisor last Tuesday at 4:40 p.m. He came into my office and screamed at me for a decision I had made earlier that day -- to take down a post about a young immigrant man who overcame difficult circumstances and challenges to graduate from college. His parents did not know the details of his life but when they found out, via our post, they went crazy. He begged us to take down the post.
I have been making these types of decisions for five years at KQED. There are dozens of such cases every year, each of them different. I try to use compassion when I make these decisions. As a result, on Tuesday, I was subjected to verbal abuse of the type I have never before experienced professionally, not even from Jann Wenner.
But the luxury of it feels good -- I suppose this is what retirement would feel like. Not having to endure the depredations of bosses who don't know anything about what they are doing and are only pursuing their own egocentric agendas. But I'll never know retirement.
Did I tell you that I now hate my job? I am old, frail and perfectly happy just watching TV and movies. But I have to get up every workday and go to the office just to earn a paycheck.
My teams won two Emmys last weekend. As usual, I was not there at the ceremony; I eschew such events.
I was verbally abused by my supposed supervisor last Tuesday at 4:40 p.m. He came into my office and screamed at me for a decision I had made earlier that day -- to take down a post about a young immigrant man who overcame difficult circumstances and challenges to graduate from college. His parents did not know the details of his life but when they found out, via our post, they went crazy. He begged us to take down the post.
I have been making these types of decisions for five years at KQED. There are dozens of such cases every year, each of them different. I try to use compassion when I make these decisions. As a result, on Tuesday, I was subjected to verbal abuse of the type I have never before experienced professionally, not even from Jann Wenner.
Saturday, June 02, 2018
Passing Comments
As I shuffle to and from work on weekdays, I try to nod and say hello to as many passersby as I can. But it has become harder lately as I have balance issues and have to avoid tripping on the many uneven sidewalk cracks on the route.
I cross York, 18th, 19th and 20th day after day. I count the streets off as I cross them, as in "two down, two to go."
Nobody warned me that aging would be like this, but I accept it as it is. I no longer drive my car; all I do is move it from one side of the street to the other to avoid parking tickets.
***
The other day, as I rounded the corner to get to my house, my way was partially blocked by three street people -- rough-looking and shabbily dressed. One had a rolling suitcase and a large plastic bag; another had a bicycle.
The guy with the bag saw me approaching and started to move it -- I waved him off and veered around a tree to keep going.
"How are you guys doing?" I asked.
They nodded and said "fine. Then one of them, noting my long flowing white hair, said "You look like Einstein."
"I'm not that smart," I replied.
Also I lack the mustache. :)
I cross York, 18th, 19th and 20th day after day. I count the streets off as I cross them, as in "two down, two to go."
Nobody warned me that aging would be like this, but I accept it as it is. I no longer drive my car; all I do is move it from one side of the street to the other to avoid parking tickets.
***
The other day, as I rounded the corner to get to my house, my way was partially blocked by three street people -- rough-looking and shabbily dressed. One had a rolling suitcase and a large plastic bag; another had a bicycle.
The guy with the bag saw me approaching and started to move it -- I waved him off and veered around a tree to keep going.
"How are you guys doing?" I asked.
They nodded and said "fine. Then one of them, noting my long flowing white hair, said "You look like Einstein."
"I'm not that smart," I replied.
Also I lack the mustache. :)
Saturday, May 26, 2018
One Small Plant
Now I have this one -- a succulent. It sits on the ledge in my back porch, where it catches the maximum sun in the second half of a day. (When we have any sun, that is. Lately there has been little.) Today I watered it using my favorite coffee cup -- a Giants cup one of my kids gave me.
I hope the small residue of coffee among the water didn't disturb my plant. I drink very little coffee -- about half a cup four days a week, max.
When I was still young enough to have fantasies and dreams of the future, I used to imagine I would live in a place like Napa or Sonoma, with acres of land planted with crops -- maybe grapes but also others.
And most definitely a vegetable garden and fruit trees.
There is something deeply satisfying about growing food crops and also beautiful things, like this little plant. Since I got it, it has at least tripled in size. I imagine I will eventually replant it in the backyard.
Back to my fantasy: I imagined there would be a house, where my wife and children lived and played, and a small building out back, where I would write during the day, returning to them at night. I thought I would write books, great books hopefully.
I'm not sure when, but at some point my fantasy died. I realized I would never be wealthy or lucky enough to live a life like that. I'm just fortunate, due to the rent control, to live out my years in a shabby, inner-city apartment. And to work in a media company well past the age my father or grandfather retired.
My Scottish grandfather reached an age, maybe about mine, when he refused to pay any further taxes. He just stopped filing, saying he had paid enough. I do not know whether his income at that point -- probably social security -- was large enough that he owed any anyway.
But he made his statement.
I know how he felt. I mailed in my taxes yesterday -- thousands of dollars. I wonder what the government would do to an old man like me if I decided to stop paying all of that money out. I would rather give it to my children and grandchildren.
-30-
Friday, May 25, 2018
My Own Kind of Poetry
Taking today "off," which means I am working from home with a light schedule. It has been a very bad period at work for me, what with being micro-managed and undermined repeatedly. I cannot afford to quit this job, so I won't, but it is making me miserable and I am so happy to not go to the office for four straight days! But my morale is now very low.
***
Someone I love deeply is struggling with an addiction issue and he is now in a treatment facility. I can't call him and can only hope he calls me at some point or someone else who tells me how he is doing. I found out last night that he has a very close new friend -- a girl -- who probably helped him seek help. I hope to meet her soon.
At times like this, I think about other people. How life is a struggle for all of us, one way or another and perhaps on many levels. Struggling seems to be the human fate. I read about these rich, powerful men who abused women and now face possible jail time. That seems justified. All I can think about is the damage they have done to peoples' lives in the pursuit of their wealth and power. For what they have done they deserve to lose their freedom.
Perhaps anyone who seeks wealth or power is corrupt on at least some level. Maybe the entire capitalist system is corrupt.
The world is being destroyed. Climate change is now palpable. What will it take to convince humanity to save this planet?
We had a light rain the other day, which I discovered when I opened the door to walk to work. As I arrived at work, a colleague told me it was the "marine layer" that was responsible. He is about my age and really had trouble pronouncing the words. I helped him finish his sentence.
These days I also have trouble getting the words I want to say out. I fumble with that a lot, which is immensely frustrating. But every now and again, in a conversation, I can succeed in producing my own kind of poetry.
There are visual cues. I was reviewing my online video producer's latest work yesterday. It is a video of volunteers who safeguard children walking to and from schools and day care centers in the Tenderloin, a rough section of San Francisco, with many drug dealers, drug users, homeless people and mentally ill people on the streets.
The volunteers go first and move all of those folks to the side (most move voluntarily), saying "the children are coming through." Then here come the kids, young, beautiful and free as only children can be.
Afterward, the street people resume their positions.
There is a visual poetry in that, which I described to a group in a separate meeting, where we were talking about "calibration" in an audio report.
So much about all story telling is calibration -- pace, sequence, and conscious choices about how to tell which details when and how.
My video producer started his video in slo-mo, then hit real-time speed, before closing out in slo-mo. So we experience the clearing and resuming of street positions twice in slow motion like a sandwich, with the children walking in real time as the substance of that sandwich. It is a visual technique that shapes how the viewer experiences the story.
You might consider that a form of manipulation, but what is a storyteller to do?
If you think about it a while, it strikes you that it also very like the experience of human life itself. We start out as babies, virtually helpless in very slow motion, only able to cry -- and as we age, we revert to that state, only able to moan.
In between we live in real time.
***
My youngest came home from college last Monday night and we had a nice talk the next night. She seems happy and so mature, at age 19. As I was speaking with her, I was living in real time. At the center of the sandwich.
-30-
***
Someone I love deeply is struggling with an addiction issue and he is now in a treatment facility. I can't call him and can only hope he calls me at some point or someone else who tells me how he is doing. I found out last night that he has a very close new friend -- a girl -- who probably helped him seek help. I hope to meet her soon.
At times like this, I think about other people. How life is a struggle for all of us, one way or another and perhaps on many levels. Struggling seems to be the human fate. I read about these rich, powerful men who abused women and now face possible jail time. That seems justified. All I can think about is the damage they have done to peoples' lives in the pursuit of their wealth and power. For what they have done they deserve to lose their freedom.
Perhaps anyone who seeks wealth or power is corrupt on at least some level. Maybe the entire capitalist system is corrupt.
The world is being destroyed. Climate change is now palpable. What will it take to convince humanity to save this planet?
We had a light rain the other day, which I discovered when I opened the door to walk to work. As I arrived at work, a colleague told me it was the "marine layer" that was responsible. He is about my age and really had trouble pronouncing the words. I helped him finish his sentence.
These days I also have trouble getting the words I want to say out. I fumble with that a lot, which is immensely frustrating. But every now and again, in a conversation, I can succeed in producing my own kind of poetry.
There are visual cues. I was reviewing my online video producer's latest work yesterday. It is a video of volunteers who safeguard children walking to and from schools and day care centers in the Tenderloin, a rough section of San Francisco, with many drug dealers, drug users, homeless people and mentally ill people on the streets.
The volunteers go first and move all of those folks to the side (most move voluntarily), saying "the children are coming through." Then here come the kids, young, beautiful and free as only children can be.
Afterward, the street people resume their positions.
There is a visual poetry in that, which I described to a group in a separate meeting, where we were talking about "calibration" in an audio report.
So much about all story telling is calibration -- pace, sequence, and conscious choices about how to tell which details when and how.
My video producer started his video in slo-mo, then hit real-time speed, before closing out in slo-mo. So we experience the clearing and resuming of street positions twice in slow motion like a sandwich, with the children walking in real time as the substance of that sandwich. It is a visual technique that shapes how the viewer experiences the story.
You might consider that a form of manipulation, but what is a storyteller to do?
If you think about it a while, it strikes you that it also very like the experience of human life itself. We start out as babies, virtually helpless in very slow motion, only able to cry -- and as we age, we revert to that state, only able to moan.
In between we live in real time.
***
My youngest came home from college last Monday night and we had a nice talk the next night. She seems happy and so mature, at age 19. As I was speaking with her, I was living in real time. At the center of the sandwich.
-30-
Friday, May 18, 2018
Past & Coming Week
Highlight was that on Tuesday, Aidan, Dylan and Aidan's girlfriend, Kelsey, came by KQED and we went to lunch at a nearby cafe. We did a lot of story-telling and laughing.
This coming Monday, Julia comes home from college. Can't wait to see her and hear her news.
Rocky week at work; lots of tough stuff going on there. It's been foggy and cold lately -- more like July than mid-May.
Hope everyone reading this is well!
-30-
This coming Monday, Julia comes home from college. Can't wait to see her and hear her news.
Rocky week at work; lots of tough stuff going on there. It's been foggy and cold lately -- more like July than mid-May.
Hope everyone reading this is well!
-30-
Saturday, May 12, 2018
Voting
This morning I filled out my ballot and dropped it in the mail. Thanks to being a journalist, I know some of the local, state and national candidates and have met others.
At a time like this, when we have a would-be dictator at President, voting becomes especially important. It is the main way we can exercise our rights. And perhaps save our democracy.
***
This was another emotional week. I am not going to go into the details except in one case. I was on a phone call with one of my reporters as she interviewed a young woman who alleges she was sexually abused.
It was my role to explain to her we had to contact her alleged abuser. That is our journalistic and legal obligation. As I told her that, she started sobbing -- she didn't want us to talk to him.
I felt horrible -- obviously this news had triggered her.
It is often not easy being a journalist. This was one of those times. But eventually we were able to help her calm herself and by the end of the call she said she understood why we had to do this.
-30-
At a time like this, when we have a would-be dictator at President, voting becomes especially important. It is the main way we can exercise our rights. And perhaps save our democracy.
***
This was another emotional week. I am not going to go into the details except in one case. I was on a phone call with one of my reporters as she interviewed a young woman who alleges she was sexually abused.
It was my role to explain to her we had to contact her alleged abuser. That is our journalistic and legal obligation. As I told her that, she started sobbing -- she didn't want us to talk to him.
I felt horrible -- obviously this news had triggered her.
It is often not easy being a journalist. This was one of those times. But eventually we were able to help her calm herself and by the end of the call she said she understood why we had to do this.
-30-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)