I have to say: When I heard Maurice Sendak was dead this morning, I didn’t think about him. I thought about baby Kate, sitting on my lap as I read her “Where the Wild Things Are.” When we got to the part about them roaring their terrible roars and showing their terrible claws, she would hold up her wee baby paws and hook her wee baby fingers into claws, and say raar.
My little wild thing. Gone for years, but still always with me.
Eighty-three years is a pretty good measure for a life. You can’t say he didn’t do a lot with it.
Same with Richard Lugar, but it’s all over now, baby blue. I’m avoiding most of the coverage, because I know sooner or later, someone will parrot the right-wing bumper sticker: Thank you for your service, but it’s time for you to go. Yeesh.
People ask me if the Democrats have a chance against Mourdock. Honestly, I don’t know. Someone here does, so let the rest of us know.
Looks like the North Carolina gay-marriage thing went down (snerk) too. This is bad news, but not the worst news. I feel, more than ever, that this issue is over, and what we’re seeing now is just the final skirmishes. But never say never.
A funny piece on a great idea by Eric Zorn, proposing a new journalism award – the Rumpelstiltskin, for spinning gold out of crap, or, to put it more clearly, doing a great job with an old, old story assignment:
Nothing awakens Chicago’s eager young reporters to the grim realities of the life they’ve chosen like their second Saint Patrick’s Day parade, when they realize there will be another parade every March until they retire and unless they get one of those glamorous overseas assignments that don’t exist any longer they will probably be out there covering it. Yet some skilled practitioners can actually make each parade sound interesting. There’s no Pulitzer for a gift like that, but there could be a Rumpy.
I’d nominate my current colleague Ron, who was given the unfortunate assignment of covering the Three Rivers Festival in Fort Wayne one year. Every day, he found a new way to cover the same old shit. My favorite was a story about the frog-jumping contest, written in the form of a letter to PETA. It was hilarious, and of course 82 percent of everyone who read it missed the point, which tells you everything you need to know about your average newspaper reader. They wrote forests full of letters condemning Ron for diming out the poor frog-jumpers, etc. But it was a rare week when it was more fun to read the stories in the paper than actually attend the stupid events, and he deserves a Rumpy.
Or maybe that’s just me.
What a story: The double agent who derailed the next attack.
I’m gonna watch some more Rachel, and set this for posting early tomorrow morning. We’ll take up the struggle tomorrow, eh?
Have a good one.