I read the news today, oh boy.

Have some coffee, like this guy, Lee Gray, in the newsroom of WKLO, which was apparently a groovy Kentucky radio station from the 60’s/70’s. There are more groovy photos where that came from at http://www.1080wklo.com/ 

Try this.  Let’s have a cup of coffee and read the news together.  How about the San Jose Mercury? It seems to land reasonably near my doorstep fairly regularly, so it’s easy enough for me to get a hold of.  If you can find a copy of today’s news, you can sing along, but more likely by the time this post is up, all this will be at least a day old, so you’ll have to dive to the bottom of the recycle just to find one.

Well, today is the 9th.  So.  Grab a cup o’ joe, curl up with the computer, and let me tell you about yesterday’s news. 

First off, now that Obama is the Dem. nominee, I have to wonder what effect the press had on the result. Supporter or not, the media weren’t quite fair to Clinton, whether it had to do with months of hinting that she should just drop out, an AP article in the Merc early in the race mocking her laugh, or any one of Letterman’s billion cheap shots at her pantsuit.  SNL didn’t help, and the early front runner was left in the dust the moment the wind shifted.

With that rant aside, back to yesterday’s news.  We could start with the natural disasters.  Indianapolis flooded, and the whole Midwest storm badness has already been said to kill eight, one in Indianapolis.  Hard to imagine that sort of weather while we sit here in the still heat.

China had a 5.0 aftershock. Peanuts compared to what they’ve been through. As of now, they say the effects aren’t known, although the aftershock did remind everyone about the threat of flooding, considering what’s said to be a rather unstable dam system, which is under surveillance.

Elsewhere in Asia, Tokyo saw a rare violent crime, as a man plowed over a crowd of people in a white van, jumped out, and started “indiscriminately stabbing” people with a large hunting knife.  The man, Tomohiro Kato, 25, reportedly said he was “tired of life.”  So he stabbed a bunch of people, and he seemed to be aiming at rather geekish young’uns standing in line outside a comic book shop or something.  What a target.  The article said that it’s pretty rare for attacks like this to happen anywhere in Japan, and in fact, this is the second attack of its kind this year, which is alarming. 

Is this western influence?  Seing Coca Cola over there is one thing, but when our disturbed patterns show up elsewhere in the world, that’s something else.  Perhaps it’s narcissistic to think that the heavily eyelinered American troubled youth would hava worldwide impact, but this sort of thing is more common in our society, and to see this sort of violence pop up in a similar form in a place where it isn’t common leaves questions.

Elsewhere on the planet, Laura Bush visited Afghanistan in a gesture meant to prove committment to President Hamid Karzai, and that the U.S. hasn’t forgotten about that side of the world in the midst of all the exciting news about movie stars being spotted on the red carpet sans underwear.  There’s a wonderful picture of her propped up against some U.S. troops. She emphasized her commitment to women’s rights, and violence around the country continued as scheduled, with 11 police and one journalist dead.

Finally, in local news, we have some concern that Vientmase Americans might have a hard time getting into San Jose politics after the whole Little Saigon debacle with Councilwoman Nguyen taking all the flack from District Seven. Nguyen was the first Vietnamese-American to break through, and it seemed far from the last, or thats what the articles say. But now everyone sort of wonders. 

There.  Well, my coffee’s all done.  Wasn’t that fun, sipping java and having the news dictated to you from a local paper?  We should do it again real soon. Good night and good luck.

Spartan Daily goes to bed.

The Spartan Daily crew.  Done with the semster, content, and a little buzzed over at the Cinnabar.

At long last, the spring ‘08 edition of the Spartan Daily (free since 1934), has printed its last issue.  And we here at the newsroom aren’t sure whether to jump up and down for a while or sit around being sad about stuff.

It’s very sentimental, you know.  No more late nights in the Daily Planet newsroom typing and retyping articles and curling up with the AP stylebook.

No more late late nights setting up page layouts, printing out numerous rough draft “75’s” and having each one nominally corrected. 

I will miss the madness.

And no more wandering around on assignment, asking random people questions they don’t want to answer and having them say “you’re not going to misquote me, are you?”

Honestly, that one kind of bothered me. Just because some illiterate crackhead misquoted someone a few semesters ago, does that mean that I’m going to carry that torch?

Sorry. I’m better now.  And I will miss the countless hungry days, broke because many my work days were ursurped by the infinity of the daily paper, in which I made top ramen using the coffee maker to boil water.

Ah, the coffee maker.  I might miss you the most, with your confusing buttons and no apparent order whatsoever.

And Big L, the most awesome news editor in recent years, Kevin, our own Danny Tanner, Josh, the desperate sports editor, Kyle, the online wizzard, Michael, the brave man with the gay column.  And Dina, who pressed my enter button to print my pages so many times, and talked me off several cliffs outside of Dwight Bentel Hall. 

Liza, when you were there, you were there, weren’t you?  Tommy, of the abominable disposition, Kyo, of the soft spoken personality who really doesn’t like it when Angelo sneaks up on her and pulls her hood over her head.  Colleen and Kate, the story mongers, knocking poor writers over to steal more bylines, and ending the semester with something like 70 stories each. Jesse the quiet one.  

All hail Dave, the new exec and “tells it like it is” opinion editor of the semester past. I hope I didn’t forget anyone.

But I will miss the coffee maker the most.

Becoming Superman

And so it happened that on one day, like so many other days, I was sitting in the Newsroom of SJSU’s own Spartan Daily.  I had written an article on something or other, and had made sure the every sentence was short and concise, that every paragraph was short and concise, and had generally made every attempt to remove any shreds of personality, humanity, or warmth that may have slipped in by accident, as per my journalistic training.

It occured to me to think of the Daily Planet, Clark Kent’s newspaper.  Wouldn’t it be fun to be Clark Kent?  You walk around pretending to be a wimp, you get to wear an awesome hat, and you play tricks on Louis Lane by pretending to compete with Superman for her attention.

Not only that, but you’d also be Superman, blessed with complete unshakable morality at all times.  If you’re doing something, and you happen to be Superman, you can be damned sure that it’s the right thing to do, period.  It sure would be nice to wipe clean the old morally ambiguous slate, rife with rationalizations and all sorts of evil,  wouldn’t it?

Some time passed, and when the phone in then newsroom rang, I’d answer “Daily Planet,” and sometimes identify myself as Clark.  Someone usually tackles me on my way to the phone when it rings these days. 

Anyway, it occurred to me to have a Superman phase.  I never really had one when I was younger, because I was squeaky clean and had flawless morals, and thus no reason to look up to a dull hero who couldn’t be killed or swayed.  Now, though, it’s sort of interesting.

So I watched all three Superman films, courtesy of a great place called “Branham Video,” who only charge 50 cents as a late fee.  The first one was great, except for the dorky poem Louis Lane recites in an echoey thinking head voice while flying with the man in blue (”can you read my mind?”  It even fucking rhymed.  Argh.)

The second film seemed like some psycological experiment to see how much stupid a given audience would sit through.  The third one was about two parts stupid, three parts interesting, but mostly because it had Richard Pryor in it.  Weird.  It was also cool to see Superman battle himself.

The films, good or bad, made being Superman seem like a lot of fun.  So I decided to be superman.

The first step was to trip and be a bit more nerdy than usual while being my alter ego, mild-mannered student reporter Angelo.

Step 2, though, becoming Superman, was a bit more difficult.  I had to drive for three hours to find a phone booth, and while inside it, attempting to squeeze into blue pantyhose and a red cape only got me arrested.

Superman I ain’t.  but, it occured to me, I do have an Atari 2600 lying around, and I remember a friend from grade school having a Superman videogame.

So I spent some quality time with the interweb, and asked the internet fairy for a copy of the game.  My wish was granted for $0.98 plus shipping.

Six to eight weeks later, there was my wonderful postal worker, trying to cram the box through the mail slot.  I claimed my prize.  Mine.

I am Superman.

*************************************************************

Superman for the Atari 2600.  Pic from http://www.hallofvideogames.com

Y’know, for all the flack this game has taken, it’s actually kind of fun.  The first few plays nearly give you epilepsy, and you wonder to your self just what in the devil is going on.  And if you don’t believe me that gameplay looks like some sort of mental psychadelic spasm, just look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7U2TFIayos

Eventually, though, it becomes clear that you are moving through a very primitively rendered city, and the screens are indeed arranged in some sort of order.

The object is to pick up some crooks, including Lex Luthor, who have exploded a bridge. put them in jail, and toss the three pieces of the bridge where they belong.

I’ve gotten pretty good at it.  My best time so far is 1:59, and I defy you mortals to beat me.  I am Superman.  I can do anything.  Superman looks sort of like Superman, at least when he’s flying, ’cause his cape flaps.  It’s fun, and weirdly Addicting.

There’s no real violence here, and it’s sort of a lot like Superman, in that nothing (bullets, Lex Luthor) bothers you except kryptonite, which is floating around the city for some reason.  You can even find Louis.

The only thing is that sometimes, you pick one thing up and then something else comes in the way, and you need to pick that up, but the original thing won’t let go, no matter how many times you land, and then kryptonite comes around, and you go down one screen, which puts you somewhere else entirely because up and down screens are sort of random, and…

The 8-bit Superman.   I want more.  Was there a NES version of this game?  If there was, stay tuned, for the next episode of Becoming Superman. 

Little Saigon

is this the face of a communist? (Madison Nguyen’s photo from SJ City Coucil website)

I went to the City Council meeting night before last thinking that I could go in, stick around for a few hours, hear the decision, and run back to the paper and write it up. Not so. I got there, promptly received the run-around, and was directed to a group of angry protestors. I was almost immediately branded with a sticker that read “Little Saigon” and was told that only those who were going to speak would be able to take seats.

Just as I was getting some perspectives from the crowd on the issue, my photographer friend from the same paper, Annie, came charging up and said in a very journalistic voice” we have to go now,” snapping pictures as she went. So we went then. For a short girl, she’s a quick runner. Five years of track, apparently.

Inside, the people guarding the press entrance were upset because we didn’t have press credentials and also because I had a skateboard, which I had used to cruise on down to City Hall.After some lollygagging (Annie turns to me and says “in 10 years of doing this, I’ve never taken ‘no’ for an answer”), the lady finally feels sorry for the decidedly under-dressed student journalists (I’m in ripped jeans and in bad need of a shave, she’s wearing capri pants and what I remember to be an arrestingly pink shirt) and lets us in.

Annie is supposed to go to the photographer stable, and I’m supposed to go to the writer’s stable, but as I climbed the steps, all the other more proficient, nicely-dressed writers said every seat was taken, and I should kindly turn around.So I hid behind little Annie and pretended to be a photographer while I wrote everything down. And that was one crowded photographer box.

As the meeting began, Mayor Chuck Reed said, most certainly tongue in cheek, “we just have a few issues on the agenda, we’ll probably be out in 10 minutes.”Of course, a decision still had not been reached by 1 a.m.Probably about 95% of the speakers, each of whom had one minute to speak, said something in broken english akin to “I vote Little Saigon.”One fellow made an interesting point, saying that if we bow to one group, where’s it going to end the next time the want to get something done?

Speaker after speaker approached the podium, which Reed getting his cards mixed up and warbling their names as I tried to write them down so I could quote them in the daily.”This is impossible,” I whispered to Annie as Reed warbled someone’s name only for the speaker to timidly and indistinguishible murmer it again.”Welcome to Journalism,” she said. I expected her to add “young grashopper” and pat me on the head, but no such luck.

Fortunately, Kim from Channel 5 News was next to me, and fluent in Vietnamese. She was quite willing to translate all the non-english bits for me, and help me with all the spelling of the names. Kim, whoever you are, wherever you are, thank you.

By the time I took off, Annie had long since gone, and to make presstime, I had to leave close to midnight to get the article going, while the meeting was still going strong.

It seems like the vast majority of those living in District Seven, which is affected by this decision, want the name to be Little Saigon, so I can’t imagine why it’s been allowed to get quite this out of hand.  Calling councilwoman Nguyen a communist is a bit out of line, and some of the objectors (to Little Saigon) had good points, but it shouldn’t have gotten to the extent of hungar strikes and protests– if the majority wants Little Saigon, and they have 4,000 signatures to back it up, why not?

Of course, we all know now that the decision to call it Saigon Business District has been rescinded. so the real decision is saved for a rainy day. How can you have a meeting that streatches out past 1 a.m. and still leave it up in the air?

Back to pencils, back to books.

Hello, my naughty little scholars. You may have noticed that classes have started again here at San Jose State, and I’d like to make sure everyone is aware that we are in the second week, it is not, repeat, not, a bad dream.

So everyone, get ready to give up sleep, start brewing coffee like mad, and drag out your Wally Pleasant CD to get in the mood for some restless college years.

What’s that? You haven’t heard of Wally Pleasant? Keep logging on to my blog, and I’ll eventually (i.e. before I graduate) give you insight on the premier college musician.

Anyway, had anyone else had the misfortune of having all their classes dropped over a $40 discrepancy in the fees? Because that certainly happened to me. I think it’s about the fourth time I’ve been screwed by A&R, not that I’m engraving notches on my bedpost or anything.

Ok, so maybe I am. Does anyone besides me find the rebate economic jump-start incentive plan a bit fishy? More on that later. Welcome back, blokes and blokesses.

Angelo Lanham

Happy winter break, merry belated Christmas, the Exorcist

Linda Blair wishes you a happy new year. photo from www.buffyguide.com

THE SEMESTER IS OVER

I know I’m being timely as hell with this one, and I know everyone probably realizes the semester is over, but here’s hoping everyone did some alright last-minute cramming, and if you haven’t already, you may now exhale: the semester is over.

MERRY BELATED CHRISTMAS, OR CHOSEN HOLIDAY

Merry Christmas. I forgot to blog on account of the holiday snuck up behind me with a bullhorn. It’s a typical excuse, but you try doing all of your goddam Christmas shopping on the 23rd.

Something tells me that now that the semester is up, the blog will fall into a brief period of neglect. Hopefully, this glum prophecy will not come to pass.

THE EXORCIST

While spending some quality Christmas family time around midnight on Christmas eve (Christmas day, technically) wrapping presents with a fellow procrastinator, a guy I like to call Dad, I mixed up a couple of Manhattans and put a rented copy of the wonderful Yule tale “The Exorcist” on the ol’ DVD player. There’s no other way to wrap presents.

I am convinced that I was the last member of modern society not to have seen this gem, so I now sort of feel a bit more like I belong in the general population. I agree with most accounts that it was creepy as all hell. I didn’t have any trouble sleeping, though, while the masses seemed to, generally.

Damn me, how did they get that kid to be so weirdical? The high point for me was watching Linda Blair act decidedly possessed. There’s no real way to describe it, but the kid does it all: the head-spinning, un-natural writhing, the evil glare, flawless lip-synching to voices of evil French and English men–it’s quite freaky.

I had quite a bit of trouble sympathizing with the mom, though. Every time someone tried to explain anything to her, she screamed at them, hollering one of about 12 variations of “what the fuck is wrong with you goddam people? This is my daughter.” It’s understandable that when your offspring start to don strange voices, move furniture around violently with powers of the mind, and push people out windows, that you’re going to get a little upset, but the hair-trigger screech of the wealthy actress mom who is used to having everything done quickly and without question by her servants just doesn’t hit my internal sympathizer.

And the doctors. Don’t get me started on these bumbling buffoons. The mom marched about 17 troops of doctors by her daughter, while the kid did strange bed gymnastics, glared with yellow eyes, spoke in men’s voices, and hurled neon green projectile vomit at them, and they all said “what an interesting psychological phenomenon,” causing more hair-trigger screeching.
I’m sorry, but when someone’s flapping around with devil horns and a green complexion, floating through the air and whatnot, that is not psychology, and no matter how many Ph D’s you have, you’re not going to think it is. Yet another example of film’s tendency to make doctors look like a bunch of morons who can’t see past the end of their noses.

All in all, though, a fulfilling experience, due almost solely to Linda Blair’s performance, and maybe also by the movie’s firm grasp for the supernatural. I suggest that next Christmas eve, you mix up some whiskey and vermouth, grab your presents and wrapping paper scraps, pop the Exorcist into your entertainment center, and let the holiday magic wash over you as you white-knuckle through many uncomfortable possessions while wrapping up other people’s possessions. Oh, and every time the mom is with a roomful of doctors and you see a vain start to pop out in her head, hit mute. She’s about to yell at them using numerous expletives.

Angelo Lanham

A Word About Checkpoints

It’s that time of year again.  Lots of eggnog, over-eating, depression, increased suicide rates, and drunk driving checkpoints.  These are scattered throughout the area, hitting surface streets, narrowing them down to one lane, and checking each and every person passing through.  This means that if you are going anywhere, you will be 20 minutes late,  because that’s how long the whole thing backs traffic up.

It seems to me either you’re driving on the sidewalk, weaving, and plowing down pedestrians, or you’re not.  And if you are, you should be pulled over, but unless it’s a lot of fun to pull people out of cars by their hair and make them walk lines, or it’s a big revenue maker, why do you need to clench up on people driving nicely through their city? 

Isn’t it a bit backwards to set up a trap to find potential offences rather than look for offences and then taking action?

Granted, I have no intention of driving around with a martini clenched in my fist, but I don’t appreciate the feeling that someone is out to “catch” me.  Do we really need to be protected from ourselves?  If they don’t make sure we’re too scared to leave our house by fear of interrogation or of large traffic backup, why, we’d kill ourselves, wouldn’t we?  Knock back a fifth of scotch and hop in the ca for some pedestrian killin’.   

I’m pissed.

Anyhoo, checkpoints I’ve seen so far are: one on Blossom Hill/Snell intersection just after 85 freeway on/off ramps, one on San Salvador in downtown near SJSU.  Avoid.  And you may as well practice just in case.  Here’s the alphabet backwards:

Z Y X W V U T S R Q P O N M L K J I H G F E D C B A

good night and good luck.

Angelo Lanham

Violators will be shot.

The owners of the coffee shop House of Bagels on San Carlos and 10th do not want you to smoke.  To make this clear, there is a vaguely comical sign that reads “positively no smoking,” which can be seen pictured above.

There is amusement to be found in the consise clarity of the point, “no smoking,” further galvanized by whatever validation the word “positively” has to offer.  This is not the average “no smoking” sign, and even smoking at 15 feet away from the building, as per California law, is not okay, but NO SMOKING.  POSITIVELY.  None.

Time for a rant.  We as a society allow people to become addicted to cigarettes, make them easy to acquire, and then treat them like leapors sixty years down the line.  It’s a bit strange that the same people raked in by cartoons of smoking camels and cowboys are now required to practice their cancer sticking a safe distance from the good people of the state of California.

That said, House of Bagels is a nice little one-room cottage of a bagel shop.  I get warm fuzzies any time I’m near the damn place, and their intolerance of people’s addictions puzzles me.  Imagine a “No Bagels” sign.  But that’s just silly.

-Angelo Lanham

Sam Donaldson at SJSU

Sam tells it like it is. Photo by Sandra Arroyo 

That’s right, good ol’ Sam, world-famous anchorman, decided to pay our lil’ university a visit-o.  So, the picture of him up there has Donaldson in front of one of SJSU’s blackboards.  Squeel in glib delight, journalistheads.

    This is nothing like timely.  Between computer crashes and other delays, it’s taken me from October 12, when he spoke, until now, the 7th of Nov. to post this, since pictures weren’t working and I didn’t want to do it w/o a pic.  But:
There’s something rather odd about seeing somebody who ought to be on television in person. So it was when I saw Sam Donaldson sitting center-stage on a stool speaking in Engineering-189. There was a simultaneous shock that he wasn’t levitating and emitting ethereal light, coupled with some vague suspicion that he wasn’t really center-stage, and that it was all some elaborate hoax.
 A wealth of good reporting advice, the best pearl had to be to “make sure everything has a factual base.”
 This led to an interesting talk about the prism through which we gain our facts, and he spoke at length about the biases involved in reading and reporting news. This surprised me a bit, since most people involved in the news would tiptoe to another topic rather than admit that reporting is not 100 percent objective, thus underscoring the importance of the factual base.
 Dan Rather, in response to a student question, became the example, and Donaldson mentioned that although Rather had completed a body of very good work, that he used documents as proof that his own sources warned they couldn’t authenticate.
 Impressively, Donaldson also made himself an example, mentioning an incident in which he called Nancy Reagan the “black mamba of the Whitehouse,” before realizing he had just called the first lady a snake and issuing an apology (he had intended to imply that she rose to the defense of her husband when he stumbled to the attacks of reporters and such).
 Donaldson spoke to the room full of SJSU students as if he were talking to an auditorium full of fellow journalists, never condescending.
 In response to a question about his opinion on the war in Iraq, Donaldson issued the most memorable quote of the afternoon: “They don’t want a democracy. They don’t know who Thomas Jefferson is, and we can’t force them to know at the point of a bayonet.”
 About the state of news today, he lamented that news, to a degree, has to be what people will watch, and people really do care about fake news. The last thing he said before leaving the auditorium was “you guys figure it out.”

Earthquake. Yup. 5.6, it was.

An earthquake hit on Tuesday, October 30, andeveryone in San Jose is still talking about the damn thing.  I should mention it.

There was an earthquake.  It lasted a few seconds, and a couple of things toppled over a bit, but everything was basically OK.  Within minutes, though, everyone and their mother’s uncle was talking about where they were “when it hit,” much like people did when JFK was shot.

So here’s where I was.  Working at Marie Callender’s, where a lady in the lounge not particularly thrilled with the idea that it was her birthday was nonetheless having one. Weeping and unhappines for the poor 39-year-old. 

A friend repeatedly attempted to goad the entire kitchen and staff into clapping out our measly royalty-free version of the birthday song for the sobster, who had no interest whatseover in putting any more emphasis on her birthday at all. 

After several botched attempts to assemble everyone (with much maneger resistance), the whole damn resturaunt staff started the primal clap that begins ths dumb Marie Callender’s birthday song.   As the clap resonated  throughout the entirety of the resturaunt, the earthquake hit and subsided, and I just thought, “damn, some spirited clapping, that was.” 

I found out later it was a 5.6 earthquake.  KCBS radio mentioned that there’s a 5-10% chance that another of equal or lesser shock value will hit within the next then days.     

Some front-porch earthquake forecasters say that this is the precursor to the doomsday earthquake people have been freaking about, boasting such credentials as “he’s predicted every earthquake in the last 20 years, he has,” but I have doubts.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t hurt to have some nice canned food and water stocked in a sack in your closet.  I sure as hell don’t, but you should. 

Also: it’s sort of a buzz with the local media (the SJ Mercury News, in particular) that every 140 years on average, a sizable quake hits the area.  We’re supposed to be on year 139.  Food for thought.  Good night and good luck.

Angelo Lanham