The Evenin' Shadders

NOTE: It’s strange, but I’ve received several requests to republish this column. Maybe it’s so those of you who are talented on golf course will have someone to laugh at. Or maybe you just like my column. Nawww, it’s probably the first reason. My nephew, Chris, is a golf wizard. He’s not just “good” — he’s great. Seriously, he should have one of those sparkly cloaks with moons and suns and a tall pointed hat with a crest of eagles crossed with five irons. He’s got the nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs endorsed by Tiger Woods or some other famous pro player. He’s got the funky shoes, too. You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have really bad taste. Then when you turn ’em over they’ve got spikes embedded in the soles. Sorta’ like a piranha. Yep, piranha shoes, that’s what I call ’em. Anyway, Chris has all these clubs and the piranha, er, golf shoes, and when he gets the chance he puts his pointy shoes on and spe

The kid was new to the school. Frightened, afraid and unsure, he and his family had just moved to the small, rural town. He was without friends. The other kids didn’t make things any easier. Suspicious and uncaring, they went out of their way to make the kid’s life miserable. They chased the kid everywhere. The kicked him. They punched him and they beat him. Even the girls got into the act. Once, as the kid walked home after school, a group of the girls chased the kid for four blocks. They cornered him in the woods and threw rocks at him. They beat him so hard his eyes swelled shut. He stumbled to the door of his house bloody, bruised and crying. On another occasion, when he was in class, a girl in the class kicked the kid over and over and over because he didn’t know anything about horses. The girl wore pointy-toed boots. She was a cowgirl and she said the kid was stupid. She kicked the kid so many times, that his legs would carry the scars for the rest of his life. Still, the kid sta

Where do we start? Where do those of us who still care, who still give a damn, go? What does it take to help make journalism as a craft and the newspapers we write for survive? How do we, the people who hold the institution of journalism (and NOT the industry) dear, fix it? I don't think anyone has all the answers, but in my 30-plus years in the communications industry, I've seen some pretty moronic decisions made by those who claim to be leaders in the field. Let me give you an example: It's no secret that newspaper circulation numbers and single copy sales are tanking. Across America, people turn to the Web or television -- hell, even radio -- for that matter for their news. Readership numbers continue to decline and newspapers suck big time at bringing in new subscribers. Well, maybe we need to embrace marketing. I know, I'm preaching heresy here, but limiting the marketing of a newspaper to ads in that same newspaper and, maybe, a few cardboard signs on a vending r

We are the profession of Mark Twain. For more than 200 years, those men and woman who put ink to paper have acted as the historians and the watchdogs of this country. Like Twain, they have told the stories of their times. But those times have changed. And now, professional journalists face a world full of turmoil and change. The path leading to this change has been long, but the change it has spawned has been rapid. About 600 years ago, Gutenberg (adopting an idea from the Chinese) gave us movable type. Benjamin Franklin showed us how to use that type to inform the public, share opinions and make a buck in the process. Mergenthaler took it a step further with the Lineotype and, a few decades after that, the boys of Compugraphic showed the world true phototypesetting; and that little history lesson doesn't include the development of offset or digital printing technology. Steve Jobs set the newspaper world on its collective ass with the development of the Macintosh computer and softw

Usually I enjoy the Fourth of July. I like the celebration. I like seeing the flags fly and I love watching the kids pop their fireworks. Yeah, the Fourth and I go way back. But this year, I’d just like to fast forward past the Fourth and go on to say, maybe this Friday. Or next week. The day started out good. We’d traveled to Pawnee County to visit my brothers and their families — Karen and me, plus a van full of kids and food. And most of the day went off without a hitch. Sure, there’s always a little family drama, but show me a family without drama and I show you family that doesn’t exist. I should have suspected something because it wasn’t the typical July day. The sky had been dark and overcast most of the afternoon, and even though it threatened rain, it was cool and there was a breeze. Then, just at dark, it started to rain. And in rained and rained and rained. Since it was obvious there weren’t going to be any more fireworks, Karen, Zach and I decided to call it a day and drive

Bob Dylan was right. In between the period of my life when Saturdays were filled with Pop Tarts, early morning cartoons, and swimming at the municipal pool, I got married, divorced and witnessed the birth of my second son. The world changed. Two of the Beatles died. Billy Joel lost his hair. And my life grew more complicated. My parents — who have been a monumental presence in my life — now look their age. My mother doesn’t hear very well, and my father, who used to cut ricks of firewood for sport, now moves much slower. He sits more and chops less. My children are quickly growing up. Ethan, at 14, is tall, gangly and sporting the first vestiges of a mustache. Sara is willowy with curves and a smile that melts hearts. Clay is no longer three and toddling; he’s ten and a starter on the baseball team. I feel like that song by Bowling For Soup: “...and bring back Springsteen, Madonna Way before Nirvana, There was U2 and Blondie And music still on MTV...” Things got even weirder this wee