recap

This week started out looking like it would bore me to tears (on top of getting me up at 4:30 most mornings to go proof pages in the newsroom) but then it exploded everywhere.

A sample, taken from Wednesday/Thursday:

Wednesday began at 4:30 a.m. I proofed and wrote all morning and afternoon and probably ran around to a few interviews, but I honestly don't remember. I had a few hours off between 3 and 5. At 5 I went to a meeting, got out of that around 7. Back the newsroom to write up a story about the meeting and to answer e-mails, listen to voice messages. Probably left around 8 or 9.

Thursday I didn't have to go in early (Thank you, night meeting). Instead I came in around 9, rewrote the radio story and recorded it, answered emails, made phone calls. 10, walked over to meet with historical society people, interviewed, toured the county jail, back to the newsroom around 11 to start writing the story and make more phone calls regarding a story about an addiction treatment agency that's leaving the area unexpectedly after 10 years of service. I got the tip on that story yesterday afternoon and a message from the woman later that night while I was in the meeting. Anyway. 11, I'm back in the newsroom, making phone calls about that, working on the history story.

12:30, I head out to another series of interviews across town, these dealing with local rehab centers. 1:40, back in the office, have a message from the district attorney's office about a case. 2, I head over to the courthouse to look over records about the case and make phone calls to corrections.

So at this point I have three stories I'm working. Because of our new schedule they all have midnight deadlines.

In the end, court story is dropped and I progress with the remaining two. Go to bed at 10:30 (but that's my fault. I'm reading "Persuasion" for about the billionth time and I always get so caught up in it and anxious about Anne Elliot's welfare). Didn't sleep well all night. I probably woke up at least five times convinced that I'd forgotten to set my alarm, or (if I remembered I'd set my alarm) that I'd forgotten to turn my ringer off of silent.

Wake up call was 4:30 this morning. Back to proofing. For God only knows what reason my computer monitor was a violent magenta color when I turned it on. It almost gave my editor a heart attack. These early morning proofings are just fraught with perils unknown. A few days back, I think it was Wednesday, the door alarms went blaring off just as we were wrapping up the paper. There were only five of us in the whole building and the alarm was just SCREAMING. Ummm, and, oh yes, the alarm's main loud speaker is located right above my desk. I couldn't focus for about twenty minutes after the thing had been shut off.

But I digress. Today I got to come home after the paper was sent. Took a shower (you know you want to know ever detail of my life) and then slept from about 7:30 until 10:30 at which point I dragged myself back out of bed and drove to an interview. From that interview I went to the newsroom to write and from there, at 12:50 I sallied forth to a law meeting/conference/panel type thing I'd been invited to attend. We got to learn about Stalking and how people can Stalk you through anything you've ever allowed into your life from your potholders to the dead cell phone you forgot to recycle, throw out or give away when you got your new phone.

So that's what I've been up to. Here are some of the fruits of my laboring. Don't laugh.

Things like this make me happy about the justice system

ADDICTION

And last, and least (in terms of how it will interest and affect you guys who live nowhere near here...not because it's not important. I don't mean that. And if I did, I probably shouldn't say it online...which is something I've been thinking about. It's frustrating to have this blog and always worry about who's reading it. I rely on my very common name. There's millions of us out there. I dare people to find me in that sea of Wilsons. However, as a journalist and some sort of professional, I have to think about this. Hmmmmm. Perhaps in another post)

Anyway: GRANT MONEY!!!!

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The scariest thing about this week--in addition to my almost complete dropping of normal life, human interaction, and regular meal consumption--is how great the possibility for errors grew with each passing day. As more information piled on quickly and constantly with less time to sift it and dump it as I went along, I quickly became a post-it-note addict. If it wasn't written down, I'd forget and my stories (by Thursday night) were taking a long time to get through. I was writing convoluted sentences that were backing into their subjects like cement mixers. Awful.

But it's the weekend! So yay! I'm going to make myself a very good dinner tonight. I'm even going to open the bottle of Trader Joe's wine because, hooray, I don't have to save it because, hooray, I'm going to Portland tomorrow for the day and I can get more. Also, I'm going to go to Target. Gosh, I miss Target.

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Meanwhile, I'm going to finish "Persuasion." No matter how many times I read it, I always forget about The Letter. Jane Austen can be a snob, but I will love her forever.

Day 36 contains: Jane Austen, County Fair, Ah memory

...and this photo is set to a CMYK color model not RGB, which is why it looks weird. All my photos come out of my camera as RGB color model files. In order for them to run properly in the newspaper, I have to drag them into Photoshop and convert them to a CMYK color model. This sounds much more impressive than it actually is.

But to our story: County! Fair! and the Banality of Post-Modern Life

When Patrick, long in the face, half-apologetic, told me I would be covering the County Fair all week, I went around the newsroom grinning a little. I love County Fairs. They bring back all these memories of Dad dragging us out to the field to listen to Johnny Limbo and the Lugnuts ("Portland's own nostalgic 50's and 60's band") at the Washington County Fair. We only did this once, but the threat to do so again was a running, frightening joke for years. I don't remember any of the music, I only remember my nine-year old self watching, horrified and giggling, the couple making out at the bottom of the hill. There. That's something I've kept secret for years.

There was an excitement about a fair: Maybe this year, Dad and Mom will turn to us suddenly while we're eating our mushy, warm sandwiches and say, "Hey kids, you're going to all have to squish into one seat in the van because we're loading a pony into the back around 5:30." This year would be the same year that Dad would buy up the neighboring properties in Aloha and knock down all the houses and fences to provide somewhere for our herd of newly-acquired mustangs to pasture. This would also be the year I became the reigning rodeo queen and took down a raging steer with my pinkie finger. All the rugged, manly, dusty, 200 lb cowboys would look up at me in awe: the most powerful under 100 lbs somewhere between 10 and 13 year old they had ever met.

Laura and I loved the pioneer exhibits. The Washington County Fair had the best version I've seen. They had a whole village constructed of logs, sticks and animal skins and over a dozen people in full historical garb. There was even a pauper beaver-trapper who played violin. We watched him grow up each year. I'm glad he kept playing and didn't give up in despair because he was truly awful for the first two years.

Then there was the barnyard area with all the wonderful attendant aromas. And the dance competitions with rows of blond girls in sparkly leotards and skirts who seemed to be Very Important. And the scary lady with her tiny performing dogs, the nastiest animals I have ever met. One of them tried to bite me and the rest just glared. And there was the Fred Meyer Bear. I can't remember who was mortally afraid of it now. I think it was Andrew. Or maybe Daniel. Anyway, we had to carefully shield them from the Fred Meyer Bear because if they saw it, they were useless for the rest of the day. Honestly, I didn't like it either, but Laura and I had to put on a strong face. So we did, walking through the expo center (primary territory of the Fred Meyer Bear) ready to laugh if we saw it. The expo center: which reminds me of the seahorses a man was selling one year for $10. I was told I couldn't have one. It would die in the next few days anyway. This made me sadder than not having one at all. It was just going to die, in a tiny plastic box filled with old sea water, where it only had one thinly waving sea plant to break up the monotony. How depressing.

I could go on and on. I love county fairs. They are everything that is summer and joy and beauty and truth to me. People have found God in stranger ways and in far more racier places.

And, now, the Clatsop County Fair and the banality of the post-modern world.

I don't think it's because I'm older or because I'm walking around with a camera and notebook and a pen and the air of journalistic authority hopefully wrapping me in a dazzling aura of purpose, but this fair clunks. Yes, it's quite a bit smaller. And yes, I don't like children...I can count on my fingers the number of children I like...and at the fair there are a thousand strange, screaming children who will probably be serial killers in ten years.

This fair is dusty without reason and full of void people, blank of face, dressed in plastic, eating ice cream without joy. Emergency action is necessary: bring out a polka band and make all the bored teenagers dance and yipee-yay. I think the main source of my disappointment is that a) there is no pioneer village complete with a bear-skin clad native who wants to trade me glass beads and b) I am still intimidated by the same people: the girls pushing around massive herd animals, wearing thick soled boots (I'm in converse), glowing with health and work and dirt, the little 4H kids who get to kick around sheep all day, and the Fred Meyer Bear (which, actually wasn't the Fred Meyer Bear. Clatsop County's version is Ronald McDonald, the scariest man alive).

It takes me about 10 minutes to see everything there is to see. It's impossible to get lost in booths and animals, in crowds of people. There are maybe five booths, and 200-300 animals (most of the poultry and rabbit variety), and no crowds. The carnival rides are manned by tanned-leather men who spit nastily over their shoulder in between pulling levers, who yell at the kids to "Line the hell up", who leer and rape and read novels. Or so it appears. I actually kind of liked them, but was pretty sure they'd kill me if I went over and asked, "So, do you get to decide how fast to whip people around? Or does the company determine the speed of the rides?"

La la. So it goes.

There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit or sense.

- Pride and Prejudice