Why journalists shouldn’t listen to popular music

I go through phases that I absolutely love Top 40 music. Right now, I’m into Miley Cyrus, all the Gaga, and whatever bridges the two on Portland’s 105.1 The Buzz.

The problem, though, is that to produce a hit song, lyricists sometimes have to abandon the good rules of grammar and syntax.

I recently heard “(I’m Gonna) Party Like A Rockstar” by a band called JTX for the first time. I find it catchy, fun, etc. But there’s a line in which the lead singer (J? T? Or X?), discussing how he intends to recover from his significant other leaving him, screams that he will “find a telephone pole to wrap around my car.”

That’s where I must interject. Do you have the strength of Superman? How exactly do you intend to pull off this feat.

Of course he means he wants to get drunk, crash his car — probably a 1997 Geo — into a telephone pole, and walk away laughing, only to look back and say, “Dude, my car is wrapped around that pole.”

But that doesn’t rhyme with “party like a rockstar.”

Seriously, I know putting words in the proper order is low on the list of someone who only has to pretend to be sad he can’t party like a rock star, but would “find a telephone pole around which I can wrap my car,” really have been so hard? It rhymes…

I know this is a trivial gripe. But having endured Sharon Barrett’s news editing class in college, these things — like how “ATM machine” is a redundancy — have been pounded into my head and such atrocities of language sound as pleasant as an ACDC cover band composed of tone-deaf kindergartners.

It’s a curse, truly. If you can’t spell, don’t get irked by misplaced modifiers on menus, rejoice. Ignorance is bliss. And can make listening to music much more enjoyable.

Why the Winter Olympics, sadly, aren’t worth watching

I’m mad at NBC. And not just for canceling Titans back in 2001.

There was a time that Americans gathered around their TVs during the Olympics, cheered for the Americans and watched, waiting, shaking with nerves, as they waited to see who won … on their TVs. NBC has taken that feeling away from us.

I love the Winter Olympics, and have been watching religiously. But NBC has been making me wonder why.

We live in the Age of Now. If it’s reported in a newspaper it’s already been reported on TV, which was beaten to it by the Internet, where it first surfaced on Twitter. There is no saving your best stuff anymore.

Yet, if an event occurs early in the day during these Winter Olympics, when does NBC air it? Primetime, baby!

Yesterday, I learned Bode Miller eared bronze and redemption in the men’s downhill. I thought about that, and felt good for the guy. I read full stories about the race and saw pictures of Miller raising his fist triumphantly. Then I went home, kissed my girlfriend, made dinner, drank two beers … and finally sometime around 10 p.m. I got to see Miller win bronze.

The kicker is that the Olympics this year are in the Pacific Time Zone, same as Portland, where I live. But do I get to see anything live? Not without a plane ticket.

Tonight, as most Olympians have probably already settled into their beds, I’m watching jeopardy, waiting for the Olympics to air. I’ve already learned that Lindsey Jacobellis didn’t medal in snowboardcross. Dish Network tells me women’s snowboardcross will be the highlight of the three-hour block of Olympic events tonight.

It’s ridiculous. And I refuse to be mad at other outlets for spoiling NBC’s fun. When other events occur during the day, the American workforce finds ways to surreptitiously watch or listen. The Olympics should be no different. With the living room dynamic out, memories could be made sneaking away to the bathroom to watch Apolo Ohno on iPhones.

Instead, the best moments of these Olympics are  distant memories by the time NBC gets around to airing them.

Worst job ever

Part of my daily routine is checking journalismjobs.com. Several times. I check newspaper jobs, click over to magazine/publishing jobs and finally check out the Web openings. Only rarely do I find one I want to apply for. After all, I’m probably too picky about where I will go next in my career, so it’s not often a job is posted that I want to apply for. That said, this evening I stumbled upon the absolute worst job posting in the history of journalismjobs.com:

Atlantic Publishing Company is a leading publisher in the business, finance, real estate, and hospitality areas. We are searching for freelance writers who are able to review books and are able to write honest reviews of 1-3 paragraphs. We will pay $50 for the entire project of ALL 3 reviews upon completion.

Allow me to recap, a “leading publisher in the business, finance, real estate, and hospitality areas” is so eager for people to review books for it — books that are sure to be boring, by the way — they will pay you the whopping sum of $50. Absolutely nuts.

For those readers who aren’t in journalism, it’s important to understand that we place great value on our product. What is the value of our words? Priceless. I’m the only one who can ever phrase things my way. No matter how hard someone tries, they will never be able to write exactly the way I do. What I submit for any assignment is absolutely one of a kind. Of course, what we do has to have a price tag attached and journalists are famously poorly paid. But, to ask for three separate pieces for $50 total is absurd.

Fifty bucks is considered crummy pay for just one freelance piece, so to expect three for that price is mind boggling. Beyond that, not only will the pay you peanuts, you can’t even do additional work for them for more peanuts. More from the ad:

If you have done book reviews with us in the past we will not be able to re-hire you at this time.

You really about rewarding the people who work for you, huh?

DC

I spent last summer as an intern at The Washington Post in DC. The paper was amazing, the people awesome, the work stimulating. The city? Hated it. Truly, deeply, loathed it. DC was too cramped. Far too many people shoehorned into a relatively small area. And they were all self-important. “I work for Sen. Soandso.” “My friend, who is a White House aid.”

It’s tiring.

The worst for me, though, was the traffic. It once took two hours to get from the Kettler Ice Complex in Arlington to my house in Adams Morgan. That’s seven miles. Rudimentary math reveals my average speed was 3 1/2 miles per hour. Lindsey Vonn skis that fast going uphill. Michael Phelps swims faster than that in a pool of melted Hershey’s bars. At one point, I remember sitting in traffic, pounding my steering wheel, absolutely screaming, “People can’t live like this.” People in the other cars must have been really freaked out, or just though I was way into the radio. Other times it would take more than an hour to find a parking spot in my neighborhood.

Point being, 10 weeks in I really hated living in the Capital City. Then, something changed.

I adjusted to the pace. I learned when I could and couldn’t drive. I began to feel like a Washingtonian. I felt at home.

Of course, as summer internships do, my time at the Post ended and I went back to the West. I had missed the mountains and the beach and I shortly forgot my short-lived affection for DC.

But seeing images this week of the overwhelming snow storm that has struck the mid-Atlantic region has made me miss it. To see pictures of friends sledding in the foreground of the monuments and the White House blanketed by more, uhm, white … It all makes me very sad I can’t join in.

So, friends who continue to live in Washington, as you curse the snow and slowly dig your ways out, take a second to be grateful for the beauty of your surroundings, and know there’s at least one Portlander who would trade you in a heartbeat.

As long as the traffic isn’t part of the deal.

Snow blankets DC in a scene straight from a children's book. If you're snowed in, it's probably easy to forget how beautiful it is right now. (John McDonnell/The Washington Post)

How American Idol should make up for the loss of Simon Cowell

It’s Tuesday night, the girlfriend is in class, and I find myself watching American Idol. Through 20 minutes through this mostly uninteresting episode and half a dozen mostly uninteresting contestants, I’m struck by a simple though.

It’s time for American Idol to come to an end.

There was a time the show was truly unique, a groundbreaking program that not only helped the few talented, undiscovered voices out there have a chance, but let the rest of us live vicariously through the Gifted Everyman. Well, no more. With the Youtube explosion and other reality variety shows, Idol has lost its monopoly.

Simon Cowell won’t be back next season, and its the perfect time to call it quits for the show. Without Simon, the show loses all of its sparks — even Jordin.

Network execs have never been good at knowing when to let a show die (Dallas, anyone?). Idol will probably live on well into this decade and into the next. But what’s the value without Cowell? You know Kelly Clarkson won the first season. After that? Ruben. Then, uhm, Bo Bice? Carrie Underwood. The dude with gray hair. Uhm… But people will always remember Simon Cowell. The show won’t be the same with a new judge, someone who tries to channel Cowell’s grouchiness.

The show withstood the loss of Paula Abdul. It will have a tougher time without it’s Sultan of Insult.

It’s time for American Idol to come to an end.

My party?

Had a long post prepared earlier today about my frustrations with the newspaper industry and my desire to get back into sports reporting. Won’t deny those are incredibly huge issues for me. But then I came home, contemplated whether or not I wanted to air that laundry (not dirty… worn) in this forum and decided to pass, and listened to this, the feel good song of the year.

Seriously, is there a better pop song that’s come out? I love Gaga. But Party in the USA rocks. It makes me feel good, is sexy and keeps me from posting things to this blog that could possibly cost me future job opportunities.

Who could complain?

An idiot and his hot balls

Not even Tiger Woods has been burned as badly as I was the night I downed six Great Balls of Fire.

Despite my eternal role as a lovable loser (see my ping-pong win-loss), the one thing I can’t resist is a challenge. In college no drink was too strong and no burger too big. If dared, no cliff was too high or evening too cold (to get naked). I’ve done a lot of stupid things, but none of them can even touch the time I was 15 and estimated that no appetizer was too spicy.

Once in middle school, during an international food day in Mr. Richwine’s class, I tasted a sliver of habanero. The piece I ate was literally the size of a fingernail clipping, but left me guzzling milk for an hour.

Two years later when my sister said I would be crazy to  to order the “Great Balls of Fire” at Salvador Molly’s, Portland’s Buffett-inspired rum shack with passable grub, I of course had to prove her wrong.

The added bonus at Molly’s was that if you ate five of those habanero cheese balls you got your picture on the wall. What better way for a pimply and pudgy teen — who couldn’t score a basket let alone a date — to skyrocket to fame?

“Yeah, I’ll have the Great Balls of Fire.” My waiter grinned, started clapping and actually skipped back to the kitchen.

My sister, who herself once had one bite of one ball, looked at me skeptically and sipped her Red Stripe.

My plate came out and I dug in. I can’t remember if I used silverware, but as a devout adherent of Emily Post’s maxims I choose to remember that I did.

Brief interruption here to explain why this is all relevant today; why I’m blogging about this 8-year-old experience now, as opposed to, say, eight years ago. Well, last night I returned to Salvador Molly’s. Not for the first time, but as has become my new rule (at risk of ruining the end of this story) I steered clear of the Great Balls of Fire, opting instead for the jambalaya (spicy level: 6 out of 20 — another lesson I learned the hard way).

Back to my balls … I slowly shoveled them in, my insipid waiter frequently skipping by, doing that little clap. With one left he went and got a Polaroid camera. I smiled and the stretching made me think my flaming lips were going to pull apart. As I chewed the last Great Ball I likely did some goofy 15-year-old move of triumph. Imagine a Tiger fist pump meets a Moroccan belly dance.

The waiter interrupted his clapping and looked at me, eyebrow raised, and said, “You didn’t eat the sauce.”

Was that a challenge, too?

Last night I looked for my picture at Salvador Molly’s. However, the Wall of Flame has been dismantled and the pictures of the people who, like me, ate their fireballs in triumph are scattered around.

It wasn’t until later that night, afater my Daiquiri Ice from Baskin Robbins and before many hours of Vesuvian vomiting, that my sister said, “Did you eat six of those things?”

You bet your Red Striped hiney I did.

“That’s what I thought. Didn’t the menu say you only had to eat five?”

The clapping waiter brought me an extra ball! I groaned and then slowly smiled — the same pain ensued. So maybe the other people on the Wall of Flame weren’t as triumphant as I was after all.

The Billdozer’s lament

The late Ted Williams had so many nicknames that it's a shame he can't share some of them with today's athletes.

Growing up I watched basketball players like Dream, Clyde the Glide, Mighty Mouse and the Admiral. Charles Barkley was the Round Mound of Rebound. Michael Jordan became Air. In baseball Griffey was the Kid, but that was really a heist of Ted Williams. Remember him? The Splendid Splinter? The Thumper? Teddy Ballgame? One and the same. His contemporary was Joltin’ Joe (the Yankee Clipper) and maybe the one person who could hit as well as he went by Sultan of Swat and never by George Herman. Babe, nicknames have come a long way (down) from where they once were.

Today we have gotten lazy. With sports writers less concerned about christening monikers (Jimmy Cannon come back) we are largely stuck with what can fit on a sign and be carried into an arena. The formula for a nickname has become so universal there’s really no pride to be had in coming up with one.

First initial + last name (- creativity) = Acceptable modern nickname

Do you know who came up with D-Wade? Of course not. Hell, the person who first called him that probably doesn’t even know he started it. Now, if it was the Marquette Jet, that might be something to be proud of.

The Blazers are the prime example of boring nicknames. All Star Brandon Roy? B-Roy. Up-and-coming guard Jerryd Bayless? J-Bay. LaMarcus Aldridge offers an even worse contribution: L.A. LA!?!? It’s taken by a city of 10 million people — each of whom, I should add, can probably come up with a better nickname for the 6-10 Texan (the “Lone Star All-Star ” comes to mind; if he can ever become one, anyhow).

I guess I should be grateful that a friend in middle school bestowed upon me “the Billdozer.” If not, I might have been stuck with the LaMarcus Aldridge model. And as nicknames go, B.O. stinks

A non-offensive offensive coordinator for the Griz

Jonathan Smith will be a great hire for Montana if he can coach with the same fire he played with at Oregon State a decade ago.

Since I was a kid, I’ve lamented the poor fortunes of the teams I root for. The Portland Trail Blazers have come oh-so-close to winning an NBA title no less than four time since I’ve been alive; my New York Mets seemingly used up all their good luck on Bill Buckner, and have since fallen flat in both 2000 and 2006; the Oregon State football team has lost two straight Civil War games to rival Oregon that cost the Beavs Rose Bowl berths; The University of Montana, my alma mater, has seen its football team lose in the national championship game the last two seasons.

As a fan, I’m convinced I’m cursed.

That’s totally ignoring 2000, of course, the one magical season when a rag-tag bunch of Oregon State Beavers, coming off the program’s first winning season in 28 years, dammed the rest of the Pac-10, went 11-1 and skipped past Notre Dame to win the Fiesta Bowl.

And the rag-taggiest of them all was a diminutive quarterback from California who nobody else wanted. Jonathan Smith quarterbacked Oregon State to its best season ever, the year fans surged to Reser Stadium and Beaver football became relevant for the first time in the modern era.

I turned 14 during that season and my memories of Smith are vivid. At 5-11 he was often dwarfed on the field, his arm wasn’t the strongest and he  wasn’t much of a runner. It was his savvy, his poise and his intelligence that made him such a joy to watch. I’ll never forget as he led the Beavers to a spirited comeback in their only loss of the season, 33-30* at Washington, he completed a long touchdown pass after losing his shoe. That speaks nothing of his talent,or any other qualities that make a quarterback great, but only to his legend. And really, with guys like Matt Moore, Derek Anderson and Sean Canfield coming after him and shattering his records, what does he have other than legend?

He left OSU holding all of the school’s passing records. Sure, maybe that’s easier to do when you have Chad Ochocinco (nee Johnson) and T.J. Houshmanzadeh to throw to, and maybe it’s easier for those guys to get open when you have running back Ken Simonton (still, I think the best running back Oregon State has had; we forget how good he was those first three years) to balance the attack.

Smith has mostly been overshadowed by Anderson and Moore, both of whom regularly appear as starters in the NFL. For Smith there was no NFL.

He immediately became a graduate assistant, coaching at OSU under Dennis Erickson and Mike Riley. He then went to Idaho, where he spent the last six seasons coaching quarterbacks — that in itself is almost funny, because the things that made Smith great are the same things I always suspected couldn’t be coached.

I’ve been reminded this month of Smith. He has joined the coaching staff at Montana in the wake of head coach Bobby Hauck’s move to UNLV. Smith will serve as the offensive coordinator for the Griz.

One might suspect the Grizzlies attack next year will be more aerial, what with Smith taking over the offensive and Robin Pflugrad, former wide receivers coach for the pass-happy Oregon Ducks, the new head coach.

After the wild ride Smith took the Beavers on in 2000, whose to say he won’t do the same for the Griz in future years?

Maybe the fact I no longer cover that team is just a continuation of my curse.

*More vividly than anything Smith ever did, I remember kicker Ryan Cesca’s 48-yard-field goal sail wide right. Had he made it, OSU would have likely appeared in the national championship game. I believe they were good enough that year to win it. That kick remains the only aspect of the 2000 season consistent with my curse.

Nine for $31.50

Last night my girlfriend and I went to see Nine, the Rob Marshall musical starring Daniel Day-Lewis, Judi Dench, Sophia Loren, Marion Cotillard, Kate Hudson, Penelope Cruz, Nicole Kidman and Fergie.

There’s more Oscars there than at a Sesame Street convention.

Anyhow, the movie was great. I loved it. The music rocked, the costumes were stunning. Daniel Day-Lewis continues to be the most underrated actor out there. The movie was just sexy; it was an intellectual cabaret. I hope Nine is nominated for, and wins, many awards.

The big but (and I’m not talking about Fergie’s): After buying two tickets, a medium popcorn and a large water we spent more that $30 to see Penelope Cruz shimmy and Kate Hudson shake. My father, a man I very much admire but whose stubbornness I usually find incredibly frustrating, hasn’t seen a movie in theaters since Space Jam. Before that, I think it was Amadeus.

“It’s a waste of money. I’ll see it when it’s on TV,” he says. And he’s  right. Americans spent $160 million to see Meet the Parents in theaters. Now it’s on USA every weekend. And my dad watches it all the time.

So what drives us all like sheep to movie theaters to watch usually banal films that for the most part are easily forgettable? Google tells me there are 31 movie theaters in the  Portland area, most showing more than 10 movies. Do they all get to charge $10.50 per ticket? That’s insane. But not as insane as the fact that we all go and consider it a viable — and affordable — form of entertainment.

I went to Nine because I was drawn in by a provocative World Series trailer. I was not disappointed and don’t really mind spending the money on the rare occasion. The last movie I saw in theaters was (500) Days of Summer — but that was at a theater that charged just $3 per ticket. Yet, last night — a Monday, for crying out loud — the lines around the Regal Cinemas in Tualatin were at least 10 deep and all showings of something called Avatar were sold out.

To quote my father again: “There ain’t no recession in Portland.”

I hear Avatar is actually quite good. But I’ll catch it when it’s on TV.