It's not yet 5am, but I have been up for hours. This is my time for reflection, reading and spending time with Ting (our beloved Golden Retriever). Kathy and the boys are sleeping soundly, providing the type of quiet that I appreciate above all else as it brings a sense of satisfaction I had never known.
There is no question that every joy, every accomplishment and every moment of true love I have ever known can be traced back to the woman who chose to partner with me all those years ago.
I am indeed a most fortunate man.
There is no need, at this point, to dwell on my past. That is the job of tabloid reporters and would-be biographers. I turn down more interview requests than I care to think about. People want, and in many cases need, to know my story. Yet, my story really only started when I met Kathy.
Kathy, you see, is the one who showed me how to be more than I thought I could be. She is the one who helped me see beyond the shades of black and white, to see the colors that make up the world we live in. She is the one who gave me the most precious gifts a man can know.
How then, did this come about? Does it matter? Of course our courtship was filled with incidents involving hand guns, strippers and the occasional bar fight. Who doesn't have moments of excitement when a relationship is young, yet our relationship improves with each passing day. How is this possible?
Our relationship is built upon a foundation of trust, honesty and respect. Without those fundamental building blocks, no man (or woman) should enter into marriage.
Please do not take this missive to think that we are immune from the issues which can plague, or kill, a marriage. Hardly! From the boys driving us nuts, to the aging of our parents, to heated discussions on the merits of putting away laundry, Kathy and I (like you) have them all. What makes us different is how we manage ourselves and each other.
To start with, no decision can be made without considering the greater good. Yes, David and Daniel are in private schools and Kathy and I may spend our golden years under a highway overpass eating cat food to survive. Yet, we know that our primary job is to see our chuckleheads grow up to be gentlemen and productive members of society. The greater good.
We've also long ago checked our egos. They are a burden, not worth the effort of maintaining. Through our marriage, we've come to know that we are not measured by money in the bank, by corporate our community achievement. No, we are measured by the swift passage of time in each other's company or in those brief moments of familial tranquility.
Lastly, I could never emphasize the importance of patience. Kathy is long suffering, yet gracious. I can only compliment her in this respect. And so, perhaps, this may be the most important facet of this gem we call marriage. You must compliment your spouse. Now, some of my former producers may get hung up here. I can only encourage you to utilize a dictionary.
We have made it through the first ten years and we look forward to all the great times and challenges ahead. We dream of sleep away camp, prep school, college and then (hopefully) our growing old together. Until then, Quo fata ferunt!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
On Heaven....
As someone well versed in religion, philosophy and the intricate practices of convertible arbitrage, I have often been asked for my thoughts and opinions on life after death. Obviously, there is good reason for me to write for I have first hand experience in the matter. It is important to note that life after death takes many forms. For President Nixon, my political and gambling mentor, there was life after political death. For others life may have taken place after the death of a relationship or upon the acceptance of religious faith. Yet, in my case, life after death (Heaven - if you will) will look something like this....
It is early evening in late May. The air is beginning to cool, yet the soft grass I lay upon retains the warmth of the afternoon sun. The few clouds that dot the sky are starting to catch the rich glow of the distant setting sun. I am tired, but not sleepy. I am thirsty and hungry but seek no refreshment. As I stare contentedly into this afternoon sky, I am assaulted by a burst of wet warmth in the form a large tongue and my nostrils are filled with a familiar smell. And there, as my field of vision changes, a familiar face comes into view. It is Ting, my beloved Golden Retriever.
His gentle countenance and imploring eyes beckon me to rise; and, as I do, I sense that he is not alone.
For now, it is early afternoon. I am on the great lawn at Lakeland Farm and the green grass is like a carpet beneath my bare feet. I see my parents home, but have no desire to go inside. I somehow know they are there, and I know they are watching me. I can sense Kathy and the boys, but I do not see or hear them.
With each passing moment, I come to realize that Ting and I are sharing this great, green expanse. We are soon joined by all the other dogs I have known and loved. There are tennis and lacrosse balls. There are dishes of cool water and patches shade beneath the trees.
They come into sight now, happy and breathless in anticipation of the joyous afternoon ahead.
There is Pendragon, the neighbor’s Gordon Setter, who would wait for me to return from Prep School. There is our Bull Mastiff, Bwana, at ease in his knowledge that his great size belies his gentle nature. They are all with me now, running and playing and fetching the balls that I throw. They bring them back to drop at my feet or keep them in their mouthes in the hope that I will come and give chase. Sam, an older female Black Lab comes into view. Just as in my childhood, she arrives with her tin pie plate in her teeth, secure in the knowledge that she will be fed and cared for. And, as I look down, I see my old lacrosse stick. It’s an STX with a weathered head and a basket which holds a white ball pocked with teeth marks. I pick it up feeling its light shape in my hand and the weight of the ball, and then I see Paget.
Paget was my Yellow Labrador Retriever who came into my life during college and whose soul became on with mine. We play again now, just as we did all those many years ago. Each throw of the ball going a little longer than the last. His breath becoming more labored with each retrieve. Yet now, just as when I was a young man and he was a pup, we do not stop. His greatest pleasure comes from the simplest of things and I realize that mine does to.
As my arms get weary, Paget lets me know that he is finished and lies down under the birch tree. I sit down in the middle of the great green lawn amongst these dogs and inhale the aroma of their scent mixed with Mother’s flowers and Lilac trees.
It is then, that Ting comes back into view. My beautiful, gentle dog sits beside me and nudges my arm over his head so that I am compelled to rub him behind his ear. I draw a deep breath and lie back. Now I realize that I am in Heaven. Like soldiers from distant times and battles, I know that will soon rise. I am on my own Elysian Field now and soon I will be joined by the virtuous, not in battle, but in play.
The air is beginning to cool, yet the soft grass I am laying on retains the warmth of the afternoon sun. The few clouds that dot the sky are starting to catch the rich glow of a distant setting sun. I am tired, but not sleepy. I am thirsty and hungry but seek no refreshment. As I stare contentedly into this afternoon sky, I am assaulted by a burst of wet warmth in the form a large tongue and my nostrils are filled with a familiar smell. And there, as my field of vision changes, a familiar face comes into view. It is Ting, my beloved Golden Retriever.
It has been said that Heaven (or Hell) is what you make of it. I do not know. What I can say with certainty is if you treat others as you wish to be treated, if share what you have, if you give of yourself then you too will find your own Heaven. It may be in this life or what comes after it. No matter what, I have my own ideas and hope that your are as nice as mine.
Quo fata ferunt!
It is early evening in late May. The air is beginning to cool, yet the soft grass I lay upon retains the warmth of the afternoon sun. The few clouds that dot the sky are starting to catch the rich glow of the distant setting sun. I am tired, but not sleepy. I am thirsty and hungry but seek no refreshment. As I stare contentedly into this afternoon sky, I am assaulted by a burst of wet warmth in the form a large tongue and my nostrils are filled with a familiar smell. And there, as my field of vision changes, a familiar face comes into view. It is Ting, my beloved Golden Retriever.
His gentle countenance and imploring eyes beckon me to rise; and, as I do, I sense that he is not alone.
For now, it is early afternoon. I am on the great lawn at Lakeland Farm and the green grass is like a carpet beneath my bare feet. I see my parents home, but have no desire to go inside. I somehow know they are there, and I know they are watching me. I can sense Kathy and the boys, but I do not see or hear them.
With each passing moment, I come to realize that Ting and I are sharing this great, green expanse. We are soon joined by all the other dogs I have known and loved. There are tennis and lacrosse balls. There are dishes of cool water and patches shade beneath the trees.
They come into sight now, happy and breathless in anticipation of the joyous afternoon ahead.
There is Pendragon, the neighbor’s Gordon Setter, who would wait for me to return from Prep School. There is our Bull Mastiff, Bwana, at ease in his knowledge that his great size belies his gentle nature. They are all with me now, running and playing and fetching the balls that I throw. They bring them back to drop at my feet or keep them in their mouthes in the hope that I will come and give chase. Sam, an older female Black Lab comes into view. Just as in my childhood, she arrives with her tin pie plate in her teeth, secure in the knowledge that she will be fed and cared for. And, as I look down, I see my old lacrosse stick. It’s an STX with a weathered head and a basket which holds a white ball pocked with teeth marks. I pick it up feeling its light shape in my hand and the weight of the ball, and then I see Paget.
Paget was my Yellow Labrador Retriever who came into my life during college and whose soul became on with mine. We play again now, just as we did all those many years ago. Each throw of the ball going a little longer than the last. His breath becoming more labored with each retrieve. Yet now, just as when I was a young man and he was a pup, we do not stop. His greatest pleasure comes from the simplest of things and I realize that mine does to.
As my arms get weary, Paget lets me know that he is finished and lies down under the birch tree. I sit down in the middle of the great green lawn amongst these dogs and inhale the aroma of their scent mixed with Mother’s flowers and Lilac trees.
It is then, that Ting comes back into view. My beautiful, gentle dog sits beside me and nudges my arm over his head so that I am compelled to rub him behind his ear. I draw a deep breath and lie back. Now I realize that I am in Heaven. Like soldiers from distant times and battles, I know that will soon rise. I am on my own Elysian Field now and soon I will be joined by the virtuous, not in battle, but in play.
The air is beginning to cool, yet the soft grass I am laying on retains the warmth of the afternoon sun. The few clouds that dot the sky are starting to catch the rich glow of a distant setting sun. I am tired, but not sleepy. I am thirsty and hungry but seek no refreshment. As I stare contentedly into this afternoon sky, I am assaulted by a burst of wet warmth in the form a large tongue and my nostrils are filled with a familiar smell. And there, as my field of vision changes, a familiar face comes into view. It is Ting, my beloved Golden Retriever.
It has been said that Heaven (or Hell) is what you make of it. I do not know. What I can say with certainty is if you treat others as you wish to be treated, if share what you have, if you give of yourself then you too will find your own Heaven. It may be in this life or what comes after it. No matter what, I have my own ideas and hope that your are as nice as mine.
Quo fata ferunt!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
On Saying Goodbye......
Life in the newsroom isn't easy. Everyone in the trade knows and accepts this.
The pressure to perform under difficult circumstances, day in and day out, can
take a toll on even the toughest of individuals. Yet, I have been privileged to
work with a group of people who epitomize "grace under pressure."
Yes, my days as an Assignment Desk Editor at WTNH have come to a close.
It is a bittersweet moment for me. I imagine, that I'll have the same feelings when
I drop David or Daniel off at prep school for the first time.
I have seen my associates grow personally and professionally. I have watched
the industry change in a fashion that not even the so-called smart crowd could
have foreseen. And I have changed as well.
The fires, homicides, and accidents will all soon fade. They will become the
distant memories of an old Assignment Desk Editor. The faces of my associates
who have moved on and (sad to say) passed on will also fade with the inexorable
passage of time.
So, I wish to give all who remain at WTNH my very best wishes. My hopes are
for your continued success and happiness.
And now, a few thoughts to share with you.
1) Remember that whether you're in the field or in the newsroom to treat each other
in the way you would want to be treated. I have failed in this, and hope that
you can learn from my mistakes.
2) Take care of each other. Look out the rearview mirror before opening the truck's
door and look up before deploying the mast.
3) You're a team! From the booth to the edit suite to the reporting team in the field to the
local sales associate. You're fortunes will rise and fall together.
4) Think about why you work in news. If you wanted a regular job, you'd have one.
5) Have fun! Embrace the fact that you love what you do. It's OK. It's an awesome
place to work.
On Monday, I'll start my newest adventure at Fox News Channel. I could not have
reached this level without acknowledging and giving thanks to my family at WTNH.
I shall never forget you.
Desk OUT!
The pressure to perform under difficult circumstances, day in and day out, can
take a toll on even the toughest of individuals. Yet, I have been privileged to
work with a group of people who epitomize "grace under pressure."
Yes, my days as an Assignment Desk Editor at WTNH have come to a close.
It is a bittersweet moment for me. I imagine, that I'll have the same feelings when
I drop David or Daniel off at prep school for the first time.
I have seen my associates grow personally and professionally. I have watched
the industry change in a fashion that not even the so-called smart crowd could
have foreseen. And I have changed as well.
The fires, homicides, and accidents will all soon fade. They will become the
distant memories of an old Assignment Desk Editor. The faces of my associates
who have moved on and (sad to say) passed on will also fade with the inexorable
passage of time.
So, I wish to give all who remain at WTNH my very best wishes. My hopes are
for your continued success and happiness.
And now, a few thoughts to share with you.
1) Remember that whether you're in the field or in the newsroom to treat each other
in the way you would want to be treated. I have failed in this, and hope that
you can learn from my mistakes.
2) Take care of each other. Look out the rearview mirror before opening the truck's
door and look up before deploying the mast.
3) You're a team! From the booth to the edit suite to the reporting team in the field to the
local sales associate. You're fortunes will rise and fall together.
4) Think about why you work in news. If you wanted a regular job, you'd have one.
5) Have fun! Embrace the fact that you love what you do. It's OK. It's an awesome
place to work.
On Monday, I'll start my newest adventure at Fox News Channel. I could not have
reached this level without acknowledging and giving thanks to my family at WTNH.
I shall never forget you.
Desk OUT!
Saturday, January 9, 2010
On Faith and the NFL
A bitter, winter's rain pelts the car as I arrive home. Ting, our beloved Golden Retriever,
is waiting for me. The product of two centuries of successful breeding,
he sits on the porch where it's dry. Ting has faith. Faith that we will love and care for him.
Faith that we will, eventually, let him back inside.
Faith in a higher power is, to quote Martha Stewart, "a good thing." It helps us realize our
place in the universe and guides us through everyday activities and relationships.
Faith in a team which does battle in the National Football League is something quite different.
Each year, usually around June, I begin contemplating the upcoming football season. I am
not driven by my gambler's instincts or my disdain for fantasy league participation, I
am driven by my faith. You see, I have faith in the New York Jets.
Like many people, my faith began in childhood, for it was a time when I observed things that my
Father could not explain. A brash young quarterback, with long hair no less, turned football
and society on its collective ear. And, from the moment the Jets upset the Baltimore Colts in the Superbowl, I was
sold. I had faith that these unlikely heroes would replicate their moment of greatness.
Kathy understands my faith in the Jets. She knows I can be openly mocked and ridiculed without
fear of reprisal or reprimand. Week in and week out, in pre-season or post, Kathy sits with me to
cheer or jeer my beloved team. We have been together more than a decade now and she knows
my faith is rock solid.
Let's be clear, it is faith, not extremism. I wear Jets shirts and monitor news about my team, but
there is no face painting, no smack talk with random strangers and I have been known to play
with the boys and walk Ting during half time.
As Americans enter this blessed time of year, we of good faith recognize one another. My friends whose
hopes and dreams have been dashed are given an ear to listen and a shoulder to lean on. Whether
they are fans of the Giants, the Redskins or even the Steelers, they are all equal for they all have
faith.
The NFL tests our faith, pure and simple.
My faith will, once again, be tested. The test takes place in Cincinnati. Yet, I believe that my
New York Jets will be victorious and march on towards the Superbowl and destiny!
And, should they fail, there is always next year.
Quo fata ferunt!
is waiting for me. The product of two centuries of successful breeding,
he sits on the porch where it's dry. Ting has faith. Faith that we will love and care for him.
Faith that we will, eventually, let him back inside.
Faith in a higher power is, to quote Martha Stewart, "a good thing." It helps us realize our
place in the universe and guides us through everyday activities and relationships.
Faith in a team which does battle in the National Football League is something quite different.
Each year, usually around June, I begin contemplating the upcoming football season. I am
not driven by my gambler's instincts or my disdain for fantasy league participation, I
am driven by my faith. You see, I have faith in the New York Jets.
Like many people, my faith began in childhood, for it was a time when I observed things that my
Father could not explain. A brash young quarterback, with long hair no less, turned football
and society on its collective ear. And, from the moment the Jets upset the Baltimore Colts in the Superbowl, I was
sold. I had faith that these unlikely heroes would replicate their moment of greatness.
Kathy understands my faith in the Jets. She knows I can be openly mocked and ridiculed without
fear of reprisal or reprimand. Week in and week out, in pre-season or post, Kathy sits with me to
cheer or jeer my beloved team. We have been together more than a decade now and she knows
my faith is rock solid.
Let's be clear, it is faith, not extremism. I wear Jets shirts and monitor news about my team, but
there is no face painting, no smack talk with random strangers and I have been known to play
with the boys and walk Ting during half time.
As Americans enter this blessed time of year, we of good faith recognize one another. My friends whose
hopes and dreams have been dashed are given an ear to listen and a shoulder to lean on. Whether
they are fans of the Giants, the Redskins or even the Steelers, they are all equal for they all have
faith.
The NFL tests our faith, pure and simple.
My faith will, once again, be tested. The test takes place in Cincinnati. Yet, I believe that my
New York Jets will be victorious and march on towards the Superbowl and destiny!
And, should they fail, there is always next year.
Quo fata ferunt!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Shift Before Christmas
'Twas the shift before Christmas and all through the station,
not a creature was stirring, nor graphics or animation.
The rundowns were set in the prompters with care, in hopes that an anchor soon would be there.
Young producers were napping, asleep in their chairs, dreaming of Emmys that would one day be theirs.
With my e-p on vacation and I at "The Desk," I sat down to my consoles to begin the day's tests.
When up from the scanners their arose such a clatter, that I woke from my stupor to hear what was the matter.
Away from "The Desk," I flew like a flash; I ran towards the door, it was truly a dash!
Halogen lights bathed the parking lot below, which was covered in ice, from non-shoveled snow.
When what in my sleep deprived eyes did appear, but a miniature sat-truck, and 8-weary reindeer,
With a gnarly old driver, so bitter (yet quick), I went with my gut that it must be St. Nick!
More rapid than eagles his curses they came, but because kids may read this, I’ll list them by name.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer!, Prancer & Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!
To the tops of the sat-dishes, make the engineers crawl!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
As news can "break" in the blink of an eye, like making his page, he took to the sky!
So up to the roof with his reindeer he flew, with a sled full of toys and some good advice to.
And inside the studio, the anchors aloof, soon heard the noise of each tiny hoof.
And back at "The Desk" I had just made some calls when in came St. Nick to deck our news halls.
He was clad in station gear, from his head to his feet, and his clothes were all filthy from years on the street.
The bundle of toys that he had on his back could be considered a hazard, or bring heart attack!
His eyes, oh how bloodshot! His crow's feet how deep! He slogged into the newsroom, just desperate for sleep!
His mouth was down turned and I detected a frown, but his demeanor was touching I knew this was no clown.
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself, for I knew not to anger this gnarly old elf!
The butt of a cig was clenched in his teeth and the aroma of fast food made the image complete.
A grunt from his mouth and a weary nod from his head soon let me know I had nothing to dread.
He gave me a look and started his work and said, "Just manage that desk and don't be a jerk!"
I stood very still, as if on a mission, then he gave some advice. Now you take a listen:
"Be kind to each other, give love and respect.
And remember your newsies are human beings too, that they tire, have bad days and even catch the flu.
So treat all with care and keep in mind this, for Christmas is one day, but I promise you this.... the spirits inside you!
This you can't miss!"
Then pinching his cig and wiping his nose, up to the roof and his sat-truck he rose!
He took down the dish, he lowered the mast, he fired it up and was off in a flash!
But I heard him yell, as he drove out of sight.....
"Happy Christmas Dear Newsies! And to all a good-night."
not a creature was stirring, nor graphics or animation.
The rundowns were set in the prompters with care, in hopes that an anchor soon would be there.
Young producers were napping, asleep in their chairs, dreaming of Emmys that would one day be theirs.
With my e-p on vacation and I at "The Desk," I sat down to my consoles to begin the day's tests.
When up from the scanners their arose such a clatter, that I woke from my stupor to hear what was the matter.
Away from "The Desk," I flew like a flash; I ran towards the door, it was truly a dash!
Halogen lights bathed the parking lot below, which was covered in ice, from non-shoveled snow.
When what in my sleep deprived eyes did appear, but a miniature sat-truck, and 8-weary reindeer,
With a gnarly old driver, so bitter (yet quick), I went with my gut that it must be St. Nick!
More rapid than eagles his curses they came, but because kids may read this, I’ll list them by name.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer!, Prancer & Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!
To the tops of the sat-dishes, make the engineers crawl!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
As news can "break" in the blink of an eye, like making his page, he took to the sky!
So up to the roof with his reindeer he flew, with a sled full of toys and some good advice to.
And inside the studio, the anchors aloof, soon heard the noise of each tiny hoof.
And back at "The Desk" I had just made some calls when in came St. Nick to deck our news halls.
He was clad in station gear, from his head to his feet, and his clothes were all filthy from years on the street.
The bundle of toys that he had on his back could be considered a hazard, or bring heart attack!
His eyes, oh how bloodshot! His crow's feet how deep! He slogged into the newsroom, just desperate for sleep!
His mouth was down turned and I detected a frown, but his demeanor was touching I knew this was no clown.
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself, for I knew not to anger this gnarly old elf!
The butt of a cig was clenched in his teeth and the aroma of fast food made the image complete.
A grunt from his mouth and a weary nod from his head soon let me know I had nothing to dread.
He gave me a look and started his work and said, "Just manage that desk and don't be a jerk!"
I stood very still, as if on a mission, then he gave some advice. Now you take a listen:
"Be kind to each other, give love and respect.
And remember your newsies are human beings too, that they tire, have bad days and even catch the flu.
So treat all with care and keep in mind this, for Christmas is one day, but I promise you this.... the spirits inside you!
This you can't miss!"
Then pinching his cig and wiping his nose, up to the roof and his sat-truck he rose!
He took down the dish, he lowered the mast, he fired it up and was off in a flash!
But I heard him yell, as he drove out of sight.....
"Happy Christmas Dear Newsies! And to all a good-night."
Sunday, November 1, 2009
On Death, News and "The Desk"
Americans love sports. In fact, I know many people who put more effort into assembling their fantasy football teams than investing their 401K plans. We can quote chapter and verse regarding our favorite players, yet most of us have no clue who possess our greatest scientific minds. It’s an ugly fact, but it’s part of what makes us a great nation.
Death, as they say, is the great equalizer. Although it comes in many forms its result is always the same. The funny thing is, we don’t view death the same way. Which brings me to the sad tales of Annie Le and Jasper Howard, two of three Connecticut students killed at their respective schools this year. WTNH News Channel 8 provides continuous coverage off all three.
Jasper Howard may have been a great football player, but we’ll never know. His athletic abilities vaulted him from the hard streets of Miami, Fl. to the bucolic campus of the University of Connecticut at Storrs. There, under the guidance, tutelage, and constant watch of his coaches Howard was to graduate into the National Football League. Unfortunately, Howard’s life was cut brutally short for he was stabbed to death outside the University’s Student Union. A tragic end to a promising life.
No one knows for sure if Jasper Howard would have made it to the NFL. The odds were against him. Yet the scouts were already checking him out and his jersey was a hot seller at the campus bookstore. People knew him. He was a star.
During the homicide investigation, there were not many calls from the networks. There were not rows of satellite trucks outside UConn’s Police Department. Howard’s murder was treated as a news blurb on the morning talk shows. Nothing more, nothing less.
The murder of Yale student Annie Le however, became a national story! It had all the lurid details, which the networks love. A brilliant, young Ivy League student. Her brutal murder-taking place just before her wedding. It was exactly the type of story Producers dream of and every reporter wants to cover.
In the days after Le went missing until the arraignment of her alleged killer, the networks howled like wild dogs feeding on the carcass of the dead girl. New Haven’s nice hotels were filled with network types and it was hard to get a drink at a good bar. Fights broke out on the steps of New Haven’s Police Department headquarters as teams vied to get decent backdrops. It was nothing less than the belly of television news laid bare for all who wanted to, and could bear to see.
The Assignment Desk, like Death, plays no favorites. Murders are a series of live shots and reporter packages. They are updates and court appearances. They are memorial services, funerals and then forgotten. Unless it’s someone I know or love, I couldn’t care less.
There is no fantasy league of scientists. For all we’ll ever know, Annie Le may have cured cancer while Jasper Howard may have failed in his bid to join the NFL and ended back on those hard streets of Miami.
Why does the star athlete get next to no network coverage, while the budding scientist makes national headlines? If you don’t already know the answer, then stay with me and I’ll teach you.
Quo Fata Ferunt!
Death, as they say, is the great equalizer. Although it comes in many forms its result is always the same. The funny thing is, we don’t view death the same way. Which brings me to the sad tales of Annie Le and Jasper Howard, two of three Connecticut students killed at their respective schools this year. WTNH News Channel 8 provides continuous coverage off all three.
Jasper Howard may have been a great football player, but we’ll never know. His athletic abilities vaulted him from the hard streets of Miami, Fl. to the bucolic campus of the University of Connecticut at Storrs. There, under the guidance, tutelage, and constant watch of his coaches Howard was to graduate into the National Football League. Unfortunately, Howard’s life was cut brutally short for he was stabbed to death outside the University’s Student Union. A tragic end to a promising life.
No one knows for sure if Jasper Howard would have made it to the NFL. The odds were against him. Yet the scouts were already checking him out and his jersey was a hot seller at the campus bookstore. People knew him. He was a star.
During the homicide investigation, there were not many calls from the networks. There were not rows of satellite trucks outside UConn’s Police Department. Howard’s murder was treated as a news blurb on the morning talk shows. Nothing more, nothing less.
The murder of Yale student Annie Le however, became a national story! It had all the lurid details, which the networks love. A brilliant, young Ivy League student. Her brutal murder-taking place just before her wedding. It was exactly the type of story Producers dream of and every reporter wants to cover.
In the days after Le went missing until the arraignment of her alleged killer, the networks howled like wild dogs feeding on the carcass of the dead girl. New Haven’s nice hotels were filled with network types and it was hard to get a drink at a good bar. Fights broke out on the steps of New Haven’s Police Department headquarters as teams vied to get decent backdrops. It was nothing less than the belly of television news laid bare for all who wanted to, and could bear to see.
The Assignment Desk, like Death, plays no favorites. Murders are a series of live shots and reporter packages. They are updates and court appearances. They are memorial services, funerals and then forgotten. Unless it’s someone I know or love, I couldn’t care less.
There is no fantasy league of scientists. For all we’ll ever know, Annie Le may have cured cancer while Jasper Howard may have failed in his bid to join the NFL and ended back on those hard streets of Miami.
Why does the star athlete get next to no network coverage, while the budding scientist makes national headlines? If you don’t already know the answer, then stay with me and I’ll teach you.
Quo Fata Ferunt!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Why President Obama Can Babysit Our Boys
Meeting the President of the United States should be a big deal. At least, it's supposed to be. Yet, having met three, I can tell you they're all basically regular folk. No, I have yet to be invited to the Oval Office. Everyone knows, I wouldn't pass the Secret Service check even with my extensive and well documented record. My experiences took place outside the White House.
Meeting Bill and Hillary Clinton was no different.
The stock market had yet to experience the "Crash of '87," and politicians were lining up to see who would replace The Gipper. It was a tough act to follow and the smart money was betting that Poppy would waltz into the Oval Office under the watchful eyes of Barbara.
We were in Helena, Arkansas to go duck hunting. It was just three guys from the city going to visit a friend who lived in a different part of the country. We would dress up in different clothes, drink copious amounts of bourbon and kill innocent waterfowl. Guns, booze and barbecue are a combination few men can refuse.
Little did we know that our host's father was a political operative and special guests were coming to meet us. We were several rounds into the evening meal when Bill and Hillary Clinton walked in. He was the Attorney General and she was miserable. Sometimes you can just tell. What caught my gimlet eye, was that they spent no time together. Bill, who usually had his arm around our hostess' waist, told duck hunting stories and asked us how things were back in the city. Hillary sat with our host in a quiet discussion regarding Wal-Mart's future earnings prospects.
Even I could see the marriage was less than happy. Bill was a rising star with an appetite for just about everything. He asked Hillary if he could join the hunting party and received an icy stare in return. She knew it would be another excuse for Bill to be out of the Governor's Mansion and nothing good ever came of that. It was evident, even back then, that Bill was not scared of his bride.
Which Brings me to President Obama. Although I'll probably never meet the man, we share one important quality. We love our families.
Like me, The President has grown up. He may sneak a cigarette every now and then, but he does not drink to excess, do drugs or chase women. He genuinely loves his girls and fears his wife. Oh yes, I said fears. Every smart man fears his wife. It makes us straighten up and fly right.
Although our belief systems are different, our love of family and respect for our wives is virtually the same.
So, I wouldn't let Bill Clinton babysit the boys. They'd be burning down the house, while Bill would be ordering pizza, raiding my beer fridge and watching pay per view movies. I'd trust Barack Obama with the boys. I know he'd feed them, give them a bath and read a story before bed.
Barack Obama is just like me. He's a husband and father trying to make the world a better place for his family. We may share little else, but I am happy to share this common ground.
Quo fata ferunt!
Meeting Bill and Hillary Clinton was no different.
The stock market had yet to experience the "Crash of '87," and politicians were lining up to see who would replace The Gipper. It was a tough act to follow and the smart money was betting that Poppy would waltz into the Oval Office under the watchful eyes of Barbara.
We were in Helena, Arkansas to go duck hunting. It was just three guys from the city going to visit a friend who lived in a different part of the country. We would dress up in different clothes, drink copious amounts of bourbon and kill innocent waterfowl. Guns, booze and barbecue are a combination few men can refuse.
Little did we know that our host's father was a political operative and special guests were coming to meet us. We were several rounds into the evening meal when Bill and Hillary Clinton walked in. He was the Attorney General and she was miserable. Sometimes you can just tell. What caught my gimlet eye, was that they spent no time together. Bill, who usually had his arm around our hostess' waist, told duck hunting stories and asked us how things were back in the city. Hillary sat with our host in a quiet discussion regarding Wal-Mart's future earnings prospects.
Even I could see the marriage was less than happy. Bill was a rising star with an appetite for just about everything. He asked Hillary if he could join the hunting party and received an icy stare in return. She knew it would be another excuse for Bill to be out of the Governor's Mansion and nothing good ever came of that. It was evident, even back then, that Bill was not scared of his bride.
Which Brings me to President Obama. Although I'll probably never meet the man, we share one important quality. We love our families.
Like me, The President has grown up. He may sneak a cigarette every now and then, but he does not drink to excess, do drugs or chase women. He genuinely loves his girls and fears his wife. Oh yes, I said fears. Every smart man fears his wife. It makes us straighten up and fly right.
Although our belief systems are different, our love of family and respect for our wives is virtually the same.
So, I wouldn't let Bill Clinton babysit the boys. They'd be burning down the house, while Bill would be ordering pizza, raiding my beer fridge and watching pay per view movies. I'd trust Barack Obama with the boys. I know he'd feed them, give them a bath and read a story before bed.
Barack Obama is just like me. He's a husband and father trying to make the world a better place for his family. We may share little else, but I am happy to share this common ground.
Quo fata ferunt!
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