I can hang with Ira Glass

I'm pretty sure history will show that I am the voice of this generation of this decade. That said, I think my message will most effectively be communicated through the genuis of that show where "hipster know-it-alls talk about how fascinating real life is," This American Life.

I've been mulling over some great topics for essays and I figure if I put them in the ether, I'm somehow committed to one day writing them:

Windblown weave clumps and dunk: How a white girl from Minnesota fared in northeast D.C.
Everything I need to know about life, I learned from the WWF
An unwitting crusader: My life as an all-season bicyclist in Alaska.

Another Song in C

I've kinda been in love with this song for the last three weeks. Makes me cry nearly every time. Please enjoy.

Why I Heart Professional Wrestling

Andrew and I went to see WWE Raw/ECW live last night at the Verizon Center. It was amazingly fun. Pyrotechnics, bad acting, sparkly costumes, funny bits, the very real threat of injury. C'mon that's America people.

I love online shoe shopping, baking and The Hills (I'm owning up to a lot of guilty pleasures here). But I also really, really like professional wrestling. Here are a few reasons why:

• It is the kind of place where "Behind Enemy Lines 3: Columbia," featuring Mr. Kennedy is honestly produced. Someone in that company seriously puts up money to make that film that sounds so terrible it should be a punchline.
  
  
• Titantron videos. They are hilariously bad in real life. You don't seem to get the full effect on TV. It's a lot like a dating service video crossed with a Rick Astley music video. I especially love the ones where they let the wrestlers rap their own entrance music.
  


• Nertz to Sarah Palin and the "real America" issue. The WWE's fans are real America. From the mother of four next to us last night who had no idea what she was even watching and just "booed when everyone else did," to the group home a few rows behind us, to the people dressed in their business casual clothes at the area last night, real people worked hard and paid real money to see these grown men ham it up for four hours.
  
  
• Cheesy though it may be, I really like that Andrew is in to it too. I'm glad we can share an enjoyment for meaty men throwing each other around, midgets in leprechaun costumes and a world where you must stop speaking the moment you hear another person's entrance music.
  
  Plus I must give him credit for letting me to spend a few hours a week watching men with cartoon-character muscles throw each other around in their underpants. I must say there was a good while where I thought the "muscle-is-going-to-tear-through-my-skin" look was icky but I'm really coming around to it. (*seductive eyebrow raise)
  
  
• Dave Batista. No, CM Punk ... no Batista .... nono, Punk ... SANTINO MARELLA.

My life is strange

wn1. I now say "Tiffany from the front desk" when I speak with people as though I live at the front desk or was born here.

2. I have seriously considered bringing Tupperware to work to take home leftover banquet food. I think if I planned ahead properly I could go for a month without grocery shopping.

3. I regularily see piles, braids and clumps of hair on the street in my neighborhood. I can't ever tell if it was forcibly removed from a head or if it fell out. Fortunately there seems to be a store next to the Safeway that frequently has human hair on sale. Bonus.

4. Someone called me Lance Armstrong when I was biking the other day. I was wearing all pink and a helmet that made me look like a kid with Down syndrome.

John Tracy for Governor

I'm just throwing it out there. Palin wins her bid for Veep, Parnell takes the House seat...

Colberg ain't got nothing on JT.

Jumping the Barracuda

Wow. What can I say? I moved 3,000 miles to get away from the wacky world that is Alaska and here it is back on my doorstep.

It seems I can't swing a dead cat in the office without catching a, "...and she sold the jet on eBay." or "I just can't vote for a woman who went back to work two days after giving birth to a child with Down syndrome." (It's refreshing to work somewhere where people admit to having political views before finishing two pitchers at Moose's Tooth.)

Nevertheless, it was an amazing "Hail Sarah" pass by the McCain campaign. In my incubator of jaded newsies and Alaska aficionados, the move has played as a last-ditch effort by a 72-year-old who can't raise his arms above his head to comb his own hair and doesn't use the Internet.

But it turns out from the public radio shows I listen to, the move may be working.

Still, I don't think Chelsea Clinton could have delivered a moment as fantastic as this:

Tough in the streets

This story caught my eye tonight as I was watching some Fox News asshat congratulate the cop who assaulted this participant in Critical Mass. For some reason the bicyclist was arrested. I don't really get it.

It another fine example of this nation's absurd attitude toward people who are not only doing them no harm but picking up their slack and cutting oil consumption so they can fuel their Hummers, boats and those little scooters they use to get around the grocery store so they never have to accidently burn calories.

Just yesterday I was nearly beaten up outside my office by some jerkoff who followed me after I stood up for myself when he cut me off. Apparently it takes a big man in a big truck with a tiny penis to get out of his car and threaten a 23-year-old girl on a bike. 

Fortunately the guy was a pussy and some construction workers outside the building seemed ready to jump to my aid. One of them told me as I was leaving that I didn't have anything to worry about and that the guy who followed me wasn't getting anywhere near me.

Glad to see someone can appreciate the plight of a bicycling badass.

Just another day on the job

I know I was the only one who just saw the sports guy take a picture of himself in front of a Channel 2 Sports logo with his cell phone. Wish I could get my hands on the pic.

The saddest little apartment

We've started selling our stuff on craigslist. It's been amazing to see how quickly our crap is selling. Still, it's left a sad, sad little apartment with a chair we stole off the lawn, an exercise ball and an air mattress left over from a visitor. Ish.

I guess it's great motivation to get out of the place and on with my life.

Breakin' up is hard to do

I think I've realized the real reason Andrew and I have been together for so long. It's not 'cuz we're so great together and all that junk. I just don't deal well with change and I don't like ending chapters in my life.


It was with that bent that I recently 'fessed up to my eminent departure from Alaska (from the Railbelt to the Beltway). I figured if I told my boss before I took off for a week-long vacation he probably wouldn't hate me so much when I got back. As it turns out, I was making the least dramatic departure around the office.

The collision of Tim and Jan's trip, John Tracy's departure and the reality of another move to another new place threw me into a bit of a tizzy. I'm pretty sure I understand why people get hooked on drugs to manage panic attacks.

Fortunately, Jan helped my put my head back on straight. That's what moms do, I guess, remind you that they love you, but that life will go on without you around. They're also pretty great for nit picking and nagging about crazy things like putting oil in a car.

So the clock is ticking. T-minus a month to eat pounds and pounds of halibut and winnow my life's belongings down to about 100 pounds for transport. Anybody need some new clothes? How about a vacuum? Half a bottle of 409?

On air talent

I'm just wondering if there is another job in the world where it is not only accepted, but encouraged, to spend a day out of the office getting your hair and make-up done.

It's all the name of the stations' image, but man it's ridiculous.

Anchorage's vendetta against bicyclists rages on

There's been a palpable change around Anchorage since the snow melted and the days began to stretch. I'm now seeing others on their bicylces. Fellow pedalers by the hundreds, in fact. I no longer get heckled by drivers passing at 30 miles an hour and I can make amazing time now that my studded tires are off.

This seasonal shift must have lulled me into a false sense of security because I was certainly caught off guard outside the post office today.

I'm the first to admit I often look ridiculous while riding my bike. The helmet I wear was spray painted gold to help finish my Legends of the Hidden Temple Green Monkey costume for Halloween. My attire varies from a rolled up pair of jeans to workout capris depending up on the day. I've dropped the reflective vest I wore for the winter. With 19 hours of daylight I bank on drivers seeing me.

Anyway, I was fastening my gold helmet after situating my iPod. I had just mailed a slew of birthday wishes and a toothbrush and was about to unlock my bike from it's make-shift rack (a parking meter) when I caught this fat, bearded Santa-esque character out of the corner of my eye.

He was jostling around readying himself to get in the passenger side of a Geo Metro. He was a big dude. Big. Jolly.

I could see him say something to me but couldn't hear it over the Amy Winehouse blaring in my ear.

"What's that?," I asked him, pulling a headphone out of my right ear.

"You all sure do look ridiculous with those helmets on," he said in what I can only imagine was that strenuously-breathed obese person way.

"Well I'll take looking silly if it keeps my brains off the road."

"You know they did some studies in Australia that found they don't help all that much. You're more likely to snap your neck in one of those."

"I guess I'll take my chances," I said as I hastily left the situation.

It takes a big pair, an Alaska-sized pair to call someone out as looking goofy whilst looking absurd yourself. I guess it's just another in the series of minds that have snapped shut to the idea of biking in Anchorage. It's just surprising, just sad.

Midnight sun and public broadcasting

Summer in Alaska is insane. Insane. It is something the healthy human brain cannot handle. I am sitting awake at 2 a.m. because my brain notices it's light out.

Fortunately there's a great documentary on PBS. Working a night shift has helped me see some pretty great stuff, the evolution of Las Vegas, the importance of corn and a two-part series on FDR. Public broadcasting is great.

If Alaska were nothing but June sunlight and PBS, I think more people would live here.

When I was your age, I was huge on YouTube

There is no question I belong to the most over-documented generation in history. From drunken parties to new cameras to weddings, twenty somethings have documented to death some of the most mundane (and spectacular) parts of their lives.

It would be hypocritical for me to pretend I'm not part of the problem as I sit writing my blog. I spend hours on Facebook and live and die by Google Chat. I've embraced the trend but am curious about what's to come.

I guess sites like babyspot and bundlo have some answers. It's not suprising, parents love pimping pictures and information about their children. In fact, I'm guessing it's a cathartic thing for mothers and fathers who stay home all day with a baby. It's a great way to reach out to the world while Jon and Kate Plus 8 is on commercial.

But I've got to say it creeps me out. Social networking was, until recently, a place for perverts, drunks, nerds and college kids (well limiting it to just perverts, drunks and nerds pretty much covers all college kids). Now people can make profiles for their dogs and cats too. It's simply too much.

I propose a ban on all social networking that isn't meant to find a hook-up (alcohol, drug, sexual or technological). Your dog will never know he's got 60 friends on dogster and your baby is more enthralled with the box your computer came in than updating their profile.

Let your kid be a kid. You'll have soooo many other opportunities to screw up their lives, why humiliate them online before their second birthday. With or without your help, your children will belong to the most documented generation in history.

A year in the real world

I was never great in school but it wasn't ever all that hard for me. In retrospect, I wish I hadn't dashed my grad school hopes with laziness and naps so early on in college, but I figure I'd rock a GRE or LSAT so I'd probably be alright.

What I really miss, though, is the intelligent conversations about things I care about. Yesterday a story was widely published about an apparent drunken driver in Mexico who plowed into a bike race and killed one person. The photo that ran (Credit: AP) is pretty graphic not to mention scary for a bicyclist.


Upon seeing the photo I tried to engage Andrew in a discussion about the ethical merits of publishing it. I identified stakeholders and questioned whether the greater good would have compelled me to publish it. It was a page right out of Chris Ison's Media Ethics. I don't think I realized it then, but it was probably the best class I took in college. It was a semester of thinking critically about something I love and figuring out how to be a careful practitioner of journalism.

I'm not sure the class ever touched upon the separation of news and sales, but I know it came up throughout my time in J-school. It's obvious to anybody with critical thinking skills that a news organization (a place where independence and the ability to question everyone without baggage are paramount) should separate its editorial work from its sales work. A reporter should never have to think twice about blasting a business for fear they'll pull their advertising. Let sales handle it.

Well, adulthood has taught me that it's not that cut and dry, especially online. In a small outfit, it's only a handful of people who work on a web page. That means the team is called upon to satisfy sales and news. It's a poor plan and a great way to quickly erode idealism. Holding fast to news values seems secondary to making sure major contracts aren't pulled. It's the definition of a conflict.

Welcome to the disillusionment of adulthood, I guess.

-This post brought to you by McDonalds, Coca-Cola and Nike

A very special preview

This one goes out just to Jan Mom and Tim Dad. I thought you'd like a sneak peek at your accommodations near Denali National Park. I can't wait to see you guys!!

The Nerf-ification of Alaska

Andrew, his friends and I headed to Denali last weekend. It was an amazing trip. It felt strange for a while, driving down heavily-wooded roads and over bubbly creeks. It reminded me of northern Minnesota. That was until we'd round a corner and mountains would pop into view.

All in all, no complaints about the trip. We stayed in a great hostel, were lucky to have some clear days and see Denali and chilled our beer in lovely Carlo Creek. Apart from leaving the LTD's lights on and needing a jump start, it went off without a hitch.

Of course I have some thoughts on the experience. Old people smell really bad. I've long tried to figure out what the odor is. I'm still not totally clear, I've narrowed it down to talcum powder or human decay. I don't think my grandparents smell that bad, but maybe it's when oldster odors combine that it gets to be truly unbearable.

On a particularly lengthy bus ride from the park's entrance to Savage River, Andrew and I were seated behind a pair of oldsters. It was like having stereo surround sound on everything the driver said. The woman, seen in the photo with the goofy hat, would repeat everything to her (what I've discerned to be El Salvadorian) friend.

The photo was captured while everyone on the bus was marveling at some sort of wildlife, if memory serves it was a grizzly bear.

I couldn't help but think that without the safety of the big green bus, these oldsters were probably done for. I guess they wouldn't have made it 12 miles from the park's entrance anyway, but nonetheless they seemed out of place and ill-equipped for any sort of wilderness coping.

Alaska is sold as a rugged, wild adventure. In fact, banners all around Anchorage bear the slogan, "Big, Wild Life." There was nothing wild about this bus ride and the encounter these elderly people had with nature. It was completely nerf-ified, down to the rest stop at the river. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of rest stops, it just didn't seem right. I had fully expected to have to pee in the woods. It was a foregone conclusion I'd braced myself for.

Turns out, the whole place was Nerf-ed out. We stopped for ice cream (my phenomenal idea) on the way back to the hostel. I clearly miscalculated the clientele and was surprised by the old people wearing name tags and capri pants crawling around the obviously recently-built "rustic" strip mall. I mean, the place had a Harley Davidson shop in it, how authentic is that?

I still haven't figured out what the true Alaska experience is. I know it's not what the Discovery Channel is hocking (I have ample access to food, medical care and Wal-Marts) but it's certainly not what Princess Cruises is selling either.

I guess like any good teenager (Alaska is pretty much the bratty tween of the United States, having joined the union a mere 50 years ago) the state is having a bit of a identity crisis. It doesn't seem to know what it really is, who really loves it and who is just exploiting it.

Doritos, C-SPAN and Psycho Analysis

I guess it takes someone else to show us who we really are sometimes. Such is the case this week. Andrew is entertaining some friends who are in town. He's beer-ing and dining them all over the Anchorage Bowl. It's been great to see people from our past life in Minnesota, albeit a strain. To call our apartment small is an understatement and squeezing four adults into it is testing its tensile strength.

But the real challenge for me has not been finding a safe route from the kitchen to the bedroom, pinpointing the origin of strange odors or understanding where all the food is going. Nay, it's been finding common ground. The guests openly play World of Warcraft and Magic: The Gathering. They are the kind of dudes who make no bones about it. Fine. Fair enough. I simply don't do these things. I don't know the lingo or understand why 96 percent of the things they laugh at are funny.

So I thought I'd try my hand with my strong suits for small talk -- pop culture and current events. I watch a ton of TV and work at a news station, I'm well versed in both. It seems innocuous enough, "Can't believe how old McCain is, "How 'bout that earthquake in China?" "Can you believe Carrie is finally going to marry Big? (Okay, that one I only expect to work with a certain cross-section, few of whom also play Magic) But they all fell flat. Completely flat.

I think the most embarrassing attempt was when I started talking about Ralph Nader publicly calling for Bush's impeachment. I watched it on C-SPAN the other night. It was a sad little press conference with Nader and about six other people, he stumbled over words and looked generally disheveled. He was a shell of the guy I came to love in the documentary about his life.

I realized as I prattled on about Nader that I may be one of only six people in the world who care. I saw eyes gloss over in the room, attentions drift to errant shoelaces and a pitiful look from Andrew. I realized, while I was sitting in muted judgement of these guys who spend their days with lightening bolts, stone taps and white mages, I was showing my own profound nerdiness. Am I any better? Does my elitism preclude me from being considered a nerd? Am I a better person because I'm swilling cheap wine while watching oil executives testify before a sub-committee on C-SPAN at 3 a.m. instead of eating cheesy snacks and slaying a fictional dragon?

I don't know. But while they stink up my living room and eat all my Doritos, they're making me thing twice about what I care about and what it makes me. They're also reminding me how much I want a bigger apartment.

Which came first, the chicken or the rice rush?

News is a real clandestine operation sometimes. Reporters, producers and editors hope the world understands what they do and invite inquiries into their work. Still, most people don't care and most news people are so wrapped up in their work they overlook their responsibility to accountability.

It could be surprising then, that many story ideas start like a Jerry Seinfeld joke, "What's the deal with ..." Someone sees something curious on the road into work, hears something interesting from their child or catches a funky smell from a community stream and BAM, tomorrow's news.

That formula makes me wonder then, what exactly happened to get people so riled up about rice. It's obvious Americans won't be going hungry, EVER. So why is the news media mongering such fear about a possible shortage? Are we reporting the news, or constructing it?


The story is absurd. I hate it. I sat in on a few news meetings last month and watched as people tried to push the rice shortage story. Costco and Sam's Club limited their customers to 200 pounds a day. 200 pounds. 200 POUNDS.

Now the rising cost of keeping rice ready has pushed restaurants' hands. Someone came waltzing through the newsroom today complaining about how he was charged $1.50 for rice with his curry. Sounds like tomorrow's news to me.

The Accidential Environmentalist

There's been much to-do lately about going green. For the most part, I consider it a fad like Atkins, HyperColor and the Spice Girls. It's led to a host of politically-convenient rhetoric, a great new cross for the hipster community to bear and a shockingly-profitable new industry in which people sell you things to help you consume fewer things. Green is the new black.

It's strange to me, then, that my post-college poverty has made me so trendy. It certainly wasn't by design. I couldn't afford tables, so I've reused some "borrowed" milk crates (the Dairy Queen will get those back any day now). I couldn't afford a car, so I biked to work in Alaska all winter. My apartment is minuscule so I've waged a personal war against the under-the-sink-stockpile of plastic bags and use cloth tote bags.

Despite an ultra-green contingent of hippies, I have to say most Alaskans are in my generally-apathetic camp. They seem to like the environment as long as they're not inconvenienced to keep it healthy. Sure it's great to hike, camp, fish, rappel and partake in a slew of other categorically dangerous and insane things, but they'll be damned if they'll put that aluminum can in a recycling bin.

Still, it's probably not their fault. Back in Minnesota, curbside recycling was a foregone conclusion. Finished with that soda? Throw the can in the bin in the garage. Done with that newspaper? Put it out on the curb.

Not so in Alaska. Like everything else, recycling is just a little bit harder, making it a little bit sweeter when the task is accomplished.

Today for the second time in as many weeks, I loaded up the LTD and took our recycling to the Anchorage Recycling Center. Any good greenie would tell me it the trip was carbon-neutral at best. I'm pretty sure the LTD gets -2 miles to the gallon.

But it's not really about that. As I slammed the door on the LTD at the recycling station, trendy aviators shading my eyes from the dull sun, I realized it's about me. It's not about doing something good for the environment, but about feeling like I've done something good for the environment. It's another notch in my elitist belt. Green is the new black.

But it's still good, I guess. I mean doing the right thing for the wrong reason is still doing the right thing, right?

Roll and Rock your Face Off!

The Rage City Rollergirls debuted in exhibition last weekend. I can easily say this is a sport made for me. From what I can tell, you push other girls around a lot, wear fun costumes and nobody minds when you fall down.

I am great at falling down. Plus, I used to skate and I try to wear a helmet whenever possible.

Moreover, I think there's a family legacy at stake. At the age of about 85 my 98-pound grandmother told me she once tried out for the roller derby. This blew my 14-year-old mind. Having never met a coked-out supermodel or Roloff, she was the smallest person I had ever seen in real life. I couldn't imagine she would survive in the roller derby. I guess coaches couldn't either since she didn't make the cut.

Maybe her problem was that she didn't have a great roller derby name -- Nihilist Nina, or perhaps Slamma-Jamma Gramma (though I'm pretty sure she wasn't a grandmother when she tried out).

It seems clear to me that my best shot at making it in roller derby is having a great name -- Minnesota Slice, Minnesota Phatts (Though that invites some nasty comments), Big Thrill from Government Hill ...

Read the ktuu.com story

An homage to Hilldy

Hilldy, the Government Hill moose, has become a lumbering presence across the A Street Bridge. She seems to be getting quite comfortable (though I'm not entirely sure what an uncomfortable moose looks like).

I'd like to welcome her to the neighborhood with a haiku:

Hilldy lumbers large
chewing, strolling and ambling
the moose loves the hill.