Odd person #3: Yelling out of car windows.

I decided to try something new yesterday: biking to work. 12 miles each way. Windy, hilly, traffic-filled roads. Biking that stupid long ride is hard enough, without the "help" from people in cars.

Things people screamed at me out their windows yesterday:

• Farmer man in pickup truck: "Can't you read you g**d*mn mother f***ing IJUT!"
• Obese hairless young woman in soccer mom van: "C'mon! Bike faster!"
• Some losers I didn't look at: "Wooooooo yeah!"

Albeit I was going slow. But to the above and to the homeless man who walked along side me trying to engage me in conversation, please keep your comments to yourself.

At the very least, please have the decency to say out the word id-i-ot instead of "ijut". It makes you sound like the idiot when you try to abbreviate it.

Odd person No. 2: Attention hog

Let me preface this post by saying that it will not be as hilarious as I intended because I seem to have left the notebook in which I chronicled OP2's behavior in my office, and I am currently in Arizona.

I was at a local cafe on Sunday to chronicle a jug band contest. After having done the bulk of reporting in the first two hours of this eight-hour jug-gernaut (hyuk!), I had just returned for the last half-hour to see who would be declared winner of the coveted Krumkakke Iron Trophy (second place won freshly caught steelhead... gotta love northern Minnesota).

After the champions were announced I ambled over to the man who seemed to be their leader and asked him if I could interview him for the paper. What follows is an approximation of what the gentleman said as he got close enough to me for me to smell that he had apparently bathed in gin that morning.

"What's your name?"
"Bob."
"Bob what?"
"Bob Dylan."

***

"What instruments do you play?"
"Well, I played the harmonica tonight, but I also play guitar. And spoons. And the occasional jug. And I blow a mean whistle. I've done washboard before. I also play the ham bone."
"The hand bone? What's that?"
"No, the ham bone. Like this: (slaps hand on thigh)."

***

"What does winning this prize mean to you?"
"Apple pie... mom... the American flag... getting the Republicans out of office... no, wait, say getting those goddamn bastard Republicans out of office... want me to keep going?"

***

"Well, I think those were all the questions I had for you."
"Are you sure? Because I sure do like the attention you've been giving me."

Whippersnapper vs. elder: An epic showdown.

I’m just now getting on a plane. As I said to my group after receiving my “graduation certificate”, this multimedia training has been one of the best experiences of my very short career thus far, and I feel like instead of it coming to an end, it’s really just beginning.

When I look back on the week, it has been exceedingly great. The people were supremely interesting and kind, the material was invigorating and attainable, and the venue was gorgeous. I’m so happy with the way it went.

Something happened though. And her name is Martha. Martha Lenn. Yeah. She happened in a big way. The organization apparently thinks it prudent to place each person with a partner on the first day, based on who is sitting next to you, then force you to essentially form a marriage with that person for the whole rest of the week, regardless of how well you work together, what the skill levels are, and how absolutely insane the match is.

Insane doesn’t begin to do it justice. Picture this if you can. 23-year-old whippersnapper is tech savvy, energetic, and excited about using multimedia to help repair a deflating industry. 120-year-old confoundingly ends up in this seminar, regardless of the fact that she loathes technology, the Internet, and most of all, young adults. Whippersnapper digests tech basics and new techniques at the speed of light. Geriatric still cannot discern between on/off functions after a full week of intense, hands-on instruction.

Thing is, of course we all have to work with people we don’t get along with. Sometimes we have to work with people we downright hate. But this was unlike any situation anyone in a workplace has ever faced, I can pretty much guarantee that. Martha lacked the capability to retain even the slightest semblance of technical information. The record button anecdote I shared with you was a perfect example of this. When operating the video camera, you move the dial to “camera”, which I would do for her because she couldn’t possibly maneuver the complicated hold-and-slide procedure, then all you had to do to record film was to hit one red button labeled “record”. This is the button closest to your thumb. Many times, her thumb would in fact be on the button, double-punching it and thus turning it on and off throughout the interview.

All right. So we’ve got an old lady who sucks at technology. Boo hoo, right? Wrong. Hear me out. A technologically-challenged elderly woman I can handle. But Martha. Is. Insane. Certifiably. Her bio said she was a veteran journalist of 25 years, yet she completely lacks any sense of news judgment, and gets extremely offended at the slightest gentle suggestion that maybe her ideas are not the best.

Example: We had to storyboard an anniversary piece about a boy who was paralyzed from a fallen speaker at a local shopping center. I suggested that for this hypothetical story, we should hypothetically include an interview from the boy’s parents. She said that was fine, but only if we single out one of the parents to talk to instead of them both. Why would we do that? I asked. Because it would be more moving, and better that way, she said. Then, we had to come up with one word that signifies the heart of this anniversary story. I suggested “unfortunate” or “unsafe”. She said those words aren’t bloody enough and that our word needs to be more dangerous. I gently suggested that tactic might be a little sensational. Then she suggested the word “mis-take”. Why the dash? I asked. Because it singles out ‘mis’, like he nearly missed his life, she said. I sighed.

Naturally, I talked to our seminar head about this. While he was sympathetic, he thought it was in my best interest to stick it out with Martha because “everyone has to deal with difficult people in newsrooms”. His solution to my conundrum was to have an impromptu session on the importance of teamwork. So this was an unscheduled, last-minute addition to our curriculum…all because of me. Our presenter asked us to face our partners and each ask the other what we can do to help him/her. Just one question – two minutes each – and we had to record and edit it. I told Martha I needed to not have to spend every moment of this training re-teaching her basic fundamentals of equipment handling (like how to press record), and which I honestly did 100 percent patiently at least twenty to thirty times. I told her if she is far behind, one of the instructors should specially work with her because I can’t afford the time or resources of this seminar teaching her.

When I asked her what she needed, she told me I’m just like all of her students who are rude, demanding, and self-centered. Then, she told me I look exactly like her daughter, and started crying! She said I need to learn to treat people like human beings, not computers. She said she has valuable aspects to bring to the table and that her type of journalism is being ruined by my generation. Then she said she can’t learn about equipment without reading the product manuals front to back. I suggested maybe she should read some of them at night in the hotel. She didn’t.

A day passes. We are in a session in which our seminar head read us the story of his adaptation and acceptance of technology into his work after years of print-only experience. Many older people in the group identify with him. It sparks a thoughtful conversation among the group and the instructors. Still, though, people (as I’m sure you’re experiencing at this point) weren’t really understanding what I was going through. Yes, our seminar had a crotchety old lady attending, but what was the big deal? She’s mostly harmless and can’t be all that bad, right? I don’t blame you for thinking this. I just thank the baby Jesus that what I’m about to tell you about actually happened.

A hand goes up. Martha, an infrequent contributor to discussions, stands up out of her chair, takes a step away from the table, and starts yelling – YELLING – about the “young people’s internet” and how journalism is ruined now because of it and that all of us “young people” only care about bells and whistles and not the fundamentals of journalism and that “our” industry is ruining “her” industry. Then, her rant culminates in one glorious sentence. Yelling about the Internet, she screams, “IF I HAVE TO SEE ONE MORE NIPPLE….”

People. Freak. Out! Nipples? Porn? Journalism isn’t porn! The Internet is not full of nipples! What pages is she going to anyway? And how is the Internet attributed solely to “young people”? Our seminar head necessarily calls a break and everyone walks out of the room, shaking with anger at her ignorant and offensive statements. We stand around a table in the kitchen. I joke, “When I’m lying in bed at night…I’m thinking…how can I get more nipples on the Internet? I mean, as a young person who invented the Internet, I just wish there could be way more nipples, you know?”

We return. Back to the discussion, Martha says, “Young people have no sense of decency. You only care about yourselves, and you don’t understand good journalism. But don’t worry. We still love you. We cherish you. You’re wonderful. We will always love you.”

I calmly jotted down a few sentences, which I knew would be the closing statement to this conversation. As her partner, as the obvious target of this conversation, and as the youngest person in the room, I raise my hand and simply, calmly say, “I find that condescending. We are your colleagues. Now, ‘bells and whistles’ and good journalism are not mutually exclusive, and there are phenomenal examples of this in the Internet. And we are all here to learn how to meld the two together. That’s why we’re here.” Hand goes down. People around the table are furiously nodding their heads in agreement. Discussion is over.

How did I feel about her rant? I’ll tell you. GREAT. Because finally, after days of enduring her attitude and long-winded, completely nonsensical speeches, finally, everyone understood. The quiet elderly lady is not just any old quiet participant. She is crazy. She is wrong. She is Martha.

Epilogue: Immediately after her rant, we were all reassigned partners. After enduring Martha for four days, my last two were spent with a snappy, sassy, great partner. The person who was reassigned to Martha spent two nights in her hotel room sobbing out of frustration.

How to make an unamusing work day more amusing

Disclaimer: At least one of my work superiors now reads this tract, so I want to assure her and all others concerned about my productivity that I only resort to the following during the spans of pensiveness I must indulge before spewing out a story.

Remove treasure from your keyboard: The obsessive-compulsive in me recently became, well, obsessed with my keyboard being spick and span. Not satisfied with hanging it upside down over my garbage can and gently tapping it, I have taken to popping off the keys using a defunct pen as leverage so I can more effectively remove dust, granola bar crumbs and other errant bits of debris. I would recommend only removing a few keys at a time so you can ensure accurate replacement.

Use unique words to spell your email address: This one always gets me giggling on even the most gloomy day. Most people use a predetermined set of words to clarify which letters they’re saying, i.e. “P as in Peter, i as in igloo, r as in rat, a as in apple, t as in tree, e as in egg.” I like to use more non-conventional words, i.e. “N as in natal, u as in umbilical, g as in gregarious, g as in geriatric, e as in elephantitis, t as in Tunisia—at—t as in tinkle, p as in prenatal—dot—com.” Oh, the fun you can have.

Exchange nonsense phrases in your foreign language of choice with a cubemate: My work pal has picked up a good deal of French from visits to the Cheesey Wineland and educational media like this. Sometimes, like yesterday, we go through a list of produce vocabulary. Other times he’ll tell me, “Voulez-vous coucher sur le Lac Qui Parle, Mont St. Michel, n’est-ce pas?” and I’ll respond with, “Il y a une pamplemousse dans le forêt magique qui a un clé au royaume magique dedans. Cherche-le!”

Look for jobs in Portland: This is a really fun game, and it’s made even more amusing by the fact that you can be a college grad with all sorts of great experience and you still won’t qualify for anything that looks even remotely interesting. Plus, sometimes you come across real gems, like this job working for a Masonic Lodge. One of the job duties is to prepare “needed items for the change over to the new Grand Master, i.e. pocket calendars, etc.” My aforementioned superior and I hypothesized that “etc” might mean skulls, rings that hold poison, magic plumb-bob and most holy and mysterious fez.

Odd person #1: Throw out your gum.

Nuggs and I encounter a lot of weird people because of our jobs and because, well, we're alive. Herein starts our semi-weekly feature in which we point out said people to you.

Today I went to a kind, middle-aged woman's home to interview her for a story. I walked into her house, cooed over her cat, and started setting up my recording equipment when all of the sudden she blurts out, "I'm sorry but you have to spit out your gum right now." Startled, I said no problem and looked frantically for a trash can. As she handed me one she said, "I have PTSD and if you don't throw it away I'm going to completely freak out."

Huh! I should have spit it out beforehand anyway because it's not the most professional practice, but I forgot I had it in my mouth. I didn't mean for my gum chewing to bring up something that haunts her from her past! Oops.

I think I pressed my parking luck

Remember how my parking lot attendant was creeping me out? Since writing that post I haven’t been back to his garage. Sometimes my van spends the day at a meter. At times I’ll cough up $4 to hitch my wagon at a bowling alley’s lot.

But lately, upon the advice of some sneaky co-workers, I’ve been leaving Ol’ Red in a (free!) hotel parking lot that has signs everywhere stating that only hotel guests may park there. There’s a greasy-haired, snaggle-toothed gremlin who watches from the hotel’s back doors to guard against malfeasance, and the game is to exit your car, duck out under the garage’s overhang, speedwalk up a hill and down the street to the office without him catching you.

About a month ago, I lost. I had pulled in next to a coworker and was nervously chatting with him before making my trek up the hill. I had turned the corner to the street, thinking I was safe, when the gremlin literally ran up to me, waving his arms, telling me my actions were verboten.

“You can’t (heave) park there (heave) unless you’re a (heave) hotel guest,” he panted.

“Oh really?” I asked innocently. “I didn’t see a sign.”

I apologized and drove across the street to the bowling alley. I waited a few days before trying again, and since then I’ve only parked there if I arrive by 8:40, figuring he doesn’t start patrolling until about 8:45.

This morning, I did everything right. I left my house on time, made sure there were no shadowy signs of life from the back door before I parked, silently locked and closed my doors, and began my speed walk up the hill. When I reached the street I thought I was safe, but the gremlin appeared on the second floor of the parking garage below me.

“Ma’am!” he screamed. “You can’t park there! Ma’am! MA’AM!”

I ignored him, thinking that if he caught up to me I could claim to have been listening to an iPod and didn’t hear him. When he started moving like he planned to follow me on my trajectory, I cut across the street and headed to the courthouse, thinking I could claim sanctuary.

“MA’AM! I’LL TICKET AND TOW YOU! MA’AM! DON’T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME!”

I walked away from him and into the courthouse. I had to get a refund from the post office there anyway. When I was done, I circled around the government buildings and entered the skywalk, not wanting to reveal my place of employment in case he was still watching.

I don’t think he’ll really tow me… He didn’t see me get out of the car so there would be a chance that he towed the wrong one. Plus, I’m parked inside the garage between two cars. Could a tow truck really get in there?

Regardless, from now on, since I’m something of a wuss, my free ride (park?) is over.

Update: I followed a complicated route around the hotel at 11 a.m. so I could catch a glimpse of my car. She was safe. I returned for another peek at four, this time risking a route that put me much more out in the open. After ascertaining she was right where I left her, I hesitated, thinking maybe I should just drive to a meter so I wouldn’t have to make another harrowing journey to the site when I was done with work. The exact moment I was about to go into the garage, the gremlin drove right past me in a hotel van. I cast my eyes shoe-ward in hopes that he wouldn’t recognize me, then continued walking down the sidewalk in case he was spying on me from his rearview mirror. Then I jumped in Ol’ Red and got the heck out in my Dodge (get it?).

Cyst update.

Angela is looking pretty big and obtrusive these days. Today I etched a likening of her into my notebook. I figured you probably want to see it, though it undoubtedly will only elevate your concern.

More news from the dead and dying animal beat

After the Windchill debacle of February 2008, I can’t claim to have been ignorant of what would happen when I wrote about a guy who hit a dog and is now suing the dog’s owners for damages to his car. Its name was Fester. It was a “special needs” dog after seizing as an infant and losing oxygen to the brain.

There was no way people weren’t going to “lap up” this “tail.” (Hyuk!)

When I got into the office I checked our website and, sure enough, it was the top-read story. It also had amassed three pages’ worth of comments from animal lovers and those with animal apathy alike. Then I got a call from a radio station in Montreal that wanted me to go on-air to comment on the story. Then I got another email from a nationwide Canadian station with the same request. Turns out the AP and Canadian Press had picked it up.

Those Canucks sure love their ailing critters.

I’ll update if I get impassioned pleas from animal lovers or more requests from the foreign press.

Embarrassing anecdotes as of late.

1. This weekend I attended a dinner party hosted by a friend's friend whom I did not know very well. At the end of the night as I was putting on my coat/sweatshirt, she said to me "I really like your sweatshirt" and as she reached her hand toward the collar to point at my sweatshirt, I simultaneously moved my head down to look at the sweatshirt, thus accidentally forcing her thumb STRAIGHT INTO MY MOUTH. All the way to the back. "It's...it's...from Old Navy" I stammered (forgetting the words "H&M") and she replied softly "uh...sorry about that". Then I left, stupefied.

2. One of my colleagues recently received a prestigious journalism fellowship at Stanford. True to congratulatory fashion, a bunch of us gathered at a skyway lounge after work to toast to his success and bid him an early farewell. We do this every time someone leaves or something great happens, and every time my boss picks up the tab. So as everyone had finished their one drink, we stood up to leave and my boss grabbed for the check. "Thank you!" I said loudly to him. He replied, "I'm not paying for you - just for me." Everyone heard. So I said, "No I know, I'm just saying, thanks for paying first!" Then I left, stupefied.