“When I ask ‘What’s next?’, it means I’m ready to move on to other things. So, what’s next?”
— Jed Bartlett, The West Wing

Six months ago, I quit my job as a “Web Publications Specialist.” The hours were absurdly long (overtime was expected and uncompensated), and even herculean efforts — like the time I put in a 25-hour day in order to help finish a website for launch — went unnoticed, save to be exploited for publicity purposes later. I enjoyed my co-workers, but I didn’t really enjoy the work, didn’t really get anything out of selling overpriced things to people who really didn’t need them in the first place.

So I started looking around. I regularly surfed journalismjobs.com, trying to find something that suited my skill set. I mostly applied for sports editing, copy editing and page design positions, though I would occasionally branch out if it was in Washington state somewhere. For the first few months it never really went anywhere, but around February/March I started to get responses.

Some were in-state, others were from elsewhere. I had set up a few phone interviews a couple weeks in advance when all of a sudden I got an email from The Inlander, which had the tripartite advantage of a) being close, b) being snarky and c) being a copy editing position, which is where I’ve often felt I can do some of my best work.

I was actually on vacation in British Columbia when I got an email asking me to come in for an interview later that week. I had no problem with this, as I really wanted the job, so I cut it a day short and drove back across the state on Friday morning in anticipation for an interview that afternoon. When I got the job, I just couldn’t stop smiling. It felt like one of those perfect moments — I was just coming off vacation, I was happy, and to celebrate I went to a friend’s barbecue and got completely black-out drunk and passed out around 10 pm.

When I woke up at 2 am, my mind was clear and I immediately started figuring out what I had to do: resign, find a place to live, figure out how I was going to move everything. I had one thought, derived from an episode of The West Wing I always enjoyed. It’s partially encapsulated by the epigraph above, but it doesn’t tell the whole story. The idea behind is that there are things you can change and there are things you cannot. Oftentimes, when circumstances come at you, the best thing to do is not to whinge about how bad everything else and how unfair life is treating you. When the variables change, all you can do is survey the situation and figure out: What’s next?

Six months ago, I plunked down in a low-slung chair, facing a brilliantly sunlit window the Inlander‘s publisher sat in front of. After asking the traditional “Why do you want to do this?” and “What are you hoping to get out of this?” questions, he turned to a topic intimately dear to my heart: loyalty.

“How long are you planning on staying in Spokane?” he asked. “We’re looking for somebody who’s in this for the long haul, five or 10 years.”

Loyalty describes almost everything I’ve ever done in a professional setting. It’s why I always worked so hard, both at the Evergreen and later at my former job. At the Ev, the loyalty was to the paper, to the profession, to the ideal that the news was a vital cog in society’s machinery, but mostly it was to my friends. My friends, who toiled tirelessly day in and day out, trying to put out the best newspaper they possibly could. It was why I didn’t mind staying late or taking on extra tasks: Out of loyalty. Even later, at a job I didn’t feel any particular respect for, I was more than happy to stay late or help other people out because I knew they’d do the same for me if asked.

One month ago, I was called into the publisher’s office for a meeting with him and the managing editor. As I sat down, I was told we were there to “talk about my position” — more specifically, the lack thereof. Due to budgetary constraints for 2011, they said they couldn’t afford to keep me on. I could either take my leave then, with one week’s severance, or continue to work through the end of December. I chose the latter, figuring that a week’s pay (“completely fucked”) was inferior to a month’s pay (“mostly fucked”).

When I went home, I did as any self-respecting Coug would: I drank. Heavily. I started when I got home at 4:30 pm and finished around 11 (when I passed out), taking most of a bottle of Scotch and a goodly portion of a bottle of Everclear with me. (This was actually a few days before Apple Cup, which I originally intended to attend but decided that — given my financial and emotional state — was probably not in the best interests of either my liver or my wallet.)

When I awoke the next morning (a Friday, which meant work), I stumbled out of bed and into the shower. I fashioned myself into the closest approximation of a functioning human being I could muster, put on my coat and marched out the door to work.

What next?

I gave myself one night to bask in self-pity, and then I started to get to work. I updated my resume, started rooting through my computer to find my portfolio website, couldn’t, got three-quarters of the way through making a new one before I found the old one, ditched the new one and updated the old one. I started crawling JJobs again, firing off resumes and cover letters.

It’s incredibly easy to get caught up in blaming people. Lord knows there’s enough to go around. I could angrily denounce the Baby Boomers and Gen Xers for fucking over our generation so royally, leaving us with an endless carousel of education, internships, jobs that we get thrown off of well before the ride ends.* Or to start scrutinizing and finding those tiny little things that don’t seem like much when everything’s going along swimmingly, but blow up to gigantic proportions when everything’s going to hell. Things simply are what they are.

But none of that does any good. I know that’s a tough prescription to take (much akin to a “Tough shit” offered when an accusation of unfairness is raised), but it’s true. I struggled with it myself in those first few minutes after I went back to my desk after the meeting. I kept flashing back to that first meeting with the publisher, with the thoughts of loyalty running through my head: “I moved to Spokane, I quit my job, I gave my word that I wouldn’t jump at the next incrementally better job … You, on the other hand, laid me off/let me go/fired me** six months in.”

It would have been easy (believe me) to level an accusation of hypocrisy, but that would have been intellectually lazy of me — and not changed a damn thing, besides. They looked at the numbers and decided what was best for them moving forward, what was best for the company. Obviously it’s not the outcome I would have preferred, but it does me no good to carry bitterness for their ensuring the paper’s continued existence. And, again, such vituperations can’t help me; they can only function as distractions.

I enjoyed my time at the Inlander. I’m immensely fond of all the writers, production people and even some of the advertising folks (no, really!), and take great pride in a few of the stories I wrote (and had a great time writing sarcastic, cynical comments on just about every cultural product imaginable).

Though nothing’s certain yet, I’m fairly deep into the interview process for one job, and I’m sure the hiring machinery for others will kick into a higher gear once the holidays are over. (Plus, I got this fortune cookie while eating teriyaki at work a few weeks ago, which has to be a good sign, right? I mean, fortune cookies can’t lie.) I would have preferred to have a gig lined up by now (as I tend to get all twitchy and stabby when I have nothing to do), but there’s nothing I can do about other peoples’ decisions — I can only influence my own. And however this interview or the next turns out, it’s not that big of a deal. I’ll simply do what I can: Examine what I did, try to figure out what I can do better next time, and ask myself the only question that matters … What’s next?

* The woman who was hired to replace me at my old job was herself let go after about three or four months because of budget problems. But that’s a whole nother story of mismanagement.
** These phrases sound like they’re different, but only if you’re not on the receiving end.

This revelation is not a sudden light that shone down upon me. It’s, in fact, been a part of my knowledge ever since I started working in the news. But somehow, no one seems to realize it.

Stories you see in newspapers, on cable TV, in magazines? Most of them are wrong.

Now, I’m not talking wholly fabricated a la Jayson Blair, but the fact of the matter is most journalists (be they bloggers, broadsheeters or broadcasters) are lazy. This laziness seeps into their reporting, which is usually cobbled together by calling people on both sides of an issue, transcribing whatever they say (or lifting quotes from the press release), and going about their merry way.

I first saw evidence of this phenomenon when I was at the Daily Evergreen. For some reason, we had three or four stories about WSU (or the Ev itself) find their way into the larger media landscape, usually via being picked up by the AP. And every time, there was always at least one major fact that was flat-out wrong. Every. Single. Time.

The first time, we tried calling the AP office and letting them know. They ran a correction over the wire … except that their correction was also wrong. And when we called them back to inform them they still didn’t have it right, they just ignored it.

Thereafter, we didn’t bother to inform them of their erroneous ways.

I bring this up because of a story I’ve been working, the so-called Four Loko ban. (An edited version of my story will be up on Thursday, using a lot of this same information.) As I went through and spent a grand total of four days tracking down research, culling information and calling up experts, one thing became crystal clear to me: The Washington State Liquor Control Board got it wrong. Horribly wrong.

Allow me to elaborate. In its proclamation, the LCB cites two reasons for their ban.

1. The overuse of caffeine can result in acute overdoses that cause health problems.
2. The marketing messages imply they have energizing effects and fail to disclose consequences and adverse effects

I’ll spot you the second reason, even though the “ban” could easily be replaced by warning labels. But the first reason isn’t even close to any known definition of the words “truth” or “accuracy.”

The studies (including those cited by the board in their fact sheet accompanying the ban) show that the danger from drinking caffeinated alcohol drinks comes from the combination of caffeine and alcohol. That is, the stimulant (caffeine) masks the effects of the depressant (alcohol), thus allowing the drinker to consume more than they otherwise would without feeling its effects.

No one, anywhere, has ever suggested that the amount of caffeine in these drinks is in and of itself a danger. If that were the case, regular energy drinks would have been banned the minute they were introduced on the market.

The aforementioned fact sheet also mentions additional reasons for the ban. They include:

• Citing two studies (from Wake Forest and the University of Florida) that people who consume alcohol and caffeine are more likely to suffer the negative aspects of drinking (assault, sexual assault, riding with intoxicated drivers).
• The FDA is currently researching the safety and legality of alcoholic energy drinks
• Companies are marketing these drinks toward youth*
• Alcoholic energy drinks look similar to regular energy drinks

These are the reasons cited — if any are given at all beyond the underage CWU students getting shit-faced in Roslyn, Wash. — for the ban in every news story I’ve read. There are, however, a few problems.

• Both studies focused on only those mixed drinks you can buy (Jågerbombs, vodka-Red Bulls) in bars. Zero studies have been conducted on pre-mixed alcoholic energy drinks.
• The FDA has not ruled on the safety and legality; therefore, why is the LCB moving ahead? Furthermore, the FDA is using those same studies, which concern the adding of alcohol to caffeine in any form, to base its judgment. Why are only pre-mixed drinks like Four Loko being affected?
• Of course they’re advertising to “youth,” an intentionally vague term. No 50-year-old’s drinking Four Loko. The spokesman for the board told me, “The board would say that these products are dangerous in their estimation. This is different than drinking beer in college or young people drinking to excess. These cans have high levels of stimulants and high levels of alcohol. The purpose of them is getting drunk.” You know, as opposed to every other kind of alcohol sold, the purpose of which is to not get drunk.
• The spokesman for the LCB also tried this “people get confused by packaging” line on me. Here’s how that conversation went:
  ME: It also says there are concerns about the packaging looking similar.
  HIM: If you’ve ever seen them, they look pretty close to the same cans as regular energy drinks
  ME: Are you seriously suggesting that people are purchasing these drinks without being aware of what they are?
  HIM: Anecdotally, people purchase them. i don’t know how the system works. But the product look just like energy drinks.
  ME: Won’t they be carded? Doesn’t it say “12 percent alcohol” on the can?
  HIM: Again, anecdotally, this is a problem.

There are two takeaways from this whole mess: 1) Mixing caffeine and alcohol can be dangerous if the person who’s drinking the concoction isn’t aware of how much alcohol and caffeine they’re actually consuming. 2) There is absolutely zero evidence to suggest a difference between pre-mixed caffeinated alcohol and non-pre-mixed. Any ban should cover bars, restaurants and any other mixing of caffeine with alcohol.

But what do you read in the news? You get the LCB’s sentiments, you get Phusion Products’ (the makers of Four Loko) rebuttal, and that’s it.

I realize this is not an issue of monumental importance to most people. I must admit, I hate energy drinks, be they alcoholic or not. But this kind of thing cannot be allowed to perpetuate, either at the media or governmental levels. If there’s a health problem, then it applies to the general consumption of alcohol mixed with caffeine. That’s the message that any reasoning adult could come up with after spending an hour looking into this issue. The failure of both the Washington state government and the media in general to come to this conclusion is worrisome.

The amazing board spokesman came up with these reasons why the ban only applies to pre-mixed stuff:

• Pre-mixed alcoholic drinks are available at your neighborhood convenience store (ergo kids can get their hands on them)
• Servers keep an eye on those ordering mixed drinks at a bar
• They’re more expensive at the bar**

I’m going to ignore the last point (because it’s stupid), and focus on the first two. The state of Montana figured out a way to fix the first problem without a ban by only allowing the sale of alcoholic energy drinks in liquor stores (where you have to be 21 to even get inside). The second is a great reason … were it not for the fact that the entire problem with these drinks is that the effect of the alcohol is masked, thus meaning the server would have no way of telling how drunk the customer is.

There are several competing themes in play here: Treating adults like adults, unnecessary intrusion of the government, and simply keeping an even playing field (between bars and the pre-mixed drink makers). I have no problem with a ban on mixing alcoholic drinks with caffeine — based on the science, it seems rather sound. What I do have a problem with is ramming through a politically expedient piece of legislation, crying “public health” as the reason and ignoring the actual implications of what that would mean. We’re smarter than that — the government, the media and the populace at large. At least, we should be.

* Using “social networking sites interactive fan websites and product giveaways at events.” OH GOD THEY’RE USING FACEBOOK! ILLEGALIZE IT!
** I swear he actually said this.

I want to make one thing clear – normally, I like Bill Carter’s history-of-modern-television books. They’re quite well sourced, drawing on arguments from all sides of a debate and (usually) paced well enough that getting through them never feels like a slog. Though it would be nice if he could offer up a bit more analysis on overall trends, it’s not really what the book’s setting out to be: a straightforward retelling of what happened.

But as I was reading through his latest (The War for Late Night: When Leno Went Early and Television Went Crazay) in preparation for a review, I was struck by two things: 1) Good god is that title way too long, and 2) He coins some of the worst metaphors I’ve ever had the misfortune to read.

Now, unfortunately I can’t list all of them out in my review, both because that’s not really the angle I want to take on the book and I only have 300 words, which is nowhere near the amount of space required to do these abominations justice. What’s worse is the fact that, since he’s talking by and large to comedians, they use references and similes so vivid and funny that Carter’s look all the worse by comparison.

Allow me an example. Conan O’Brien, in referencing NBC’s nonchalance at giving Jay Leno a contract that bound the network’s hands (and ultimately ended up screwing Conan over), compares it to someone saying

“I took your son to the mall today and I gave him to a homeless person. If I could I would take it back, but what’s done is done.”

In other words, funny, poignant and relevant to nearly any audience. By contrast, here are a few of Carter’s doozies:

But the request rolled the Mouse Trap ball out onto the first ramp of the still unfinished contraption for NBC.

For the uninitiated, Mouse Trap was a board game that rose to popularity in the early ’60s, one most people get bored of around the age of 7.

That summer of 1988 in Chicago was torrid at record-setting levels. Conan’s little windowless cell had no air conditioning.* He would return from the theater and enter the hot box like Colonel Nicholson getting into the corrugated torture oven next to the River Kwai.**

It’s understandable if you have no idea what that’s in reference to: I had to look it up on Wikipedia to find out it’s a reference to The Bridge on the River Kwai.*** That is, a movie (not a TV show) from nineteen-fifty-fucking-seven, back before they even invented numerals to spell out years.

Not only would every good topical joke have been done on the other shows all week — anathema to Leno — but the process of making that kind of show would make him go boing like an overwound watch.

Putting aside the fact that nearly all watches now run on batteries, who the hell wears a watch anymore? And really, “boing” is the best onomatopoeical word you come up with to describe how badly a decision would hurt someone?

They still found themselves on the verge of playing the sad-sack victims in an old familiar horror movie, menaced by the same intractable boogey-man, apparently every bit as unkillable as as Michael Meyers in a Halloween movie: the chair that two men wanted, but only one could sit in.

I’m actually impressed he managed to use a reference that only dates back to the late 1970s. Unfortunately, according to my admittedly limited understanding of biology, chairs — though technically unkillable — are not immortal in the same sense as a supernatural embodiment of pure evil. And not only because one of those is a fictional character and the other is a false dilemma.

Conan was swallowing the network’s latest bow to Leno because it was all still worth it to host The Tonight Show.

This is mostly just nit-picking lazy writing, but you can’t swallow a bow.^†

After drinking enough cups of strong coffee to stimulate the economy and before going downstairs to perform …

This is a bad joke. Like, Leno-bad.

He had clicked the pieces into place like an elaborately designed Lego construction; he intended to see the plan through by personally informing all the players.

I’m unsure as to what pisses me off more about these: the fact that they’re bad, or the fact a majority of them are really only understandable to sexagenarians. It’s bad enough to talk about something that only people born in the 1960s would care about, but by referencing, say, a movie from 1957, you’re ensuring the reader has to a) be a huge Alec Guiness fan or b) have been old enough to have seen the movie in 1957 and still be not-senile enough to remember it.

There’s probably a pretty good explanation for how bad most of these are: Most of the first half of the book is essentially filler. There are multi-page mini-profiles of absolutely every person involved in a late-night show, including Colbert, Stewart, Ferguson, Kimmel and Fallon, even though only one of those is mentioned beyond a passing name-drop in the second, more interesting half of the book. Once it gets into the meat of things (i.e., the actual Conan-Leno fiasco), he finally steps aside and lets the story pull its own weight.

Moral of the story? Pare your stories down to the parts people actually want to read. Your hack-y jokes won’t save the rest from reading like the outtakes transcription from Scary Movie 9.

* Actually, not bad.
** Actually, horrible.
*** In hindsight, I probably could have guessed that’s where the reference is from.
^† Unless you’ve got a chin as big as Leno’s. Buzz-ZING!^‡
‡ Actually, even a large chin does not necessarily indicate a mouth or throat opening large enough to swallow a person whole. But it could!

Alaska — Let your mind drift back to the halcyon days of 2008, when Alaskans were complaining the press was making the entire state look stupid by equating its collective intelligence with Sarah Palin’s. What, then, are we to make of the fact that the write-in candidate was freaking out because she was afraid her supporters might not spell her name properly? “Murkowski,” though not the easiest thing in the world to spell, is no “Schwarzenegger.” Dear Alaska: If you don’t want people to call you stupid, stop giving them evidence.

Local — In Washington’s 6th Legislative District, Position 2 looks like it’s leaning toward Republican John Ahern. Ahern previously held the seat for several years before losing to Democrat John Driscoll in 2008. There are two possible explanations for this: Enough people vastly swung their political orientation, or different people voted in the two elections. This phenomenon is not limited to the district, but for some reason people all over the country are trying to figure out election results using the latter explanation. Wouldn’t Occam’s Razor favor the former?

Washington — If he loses, can we get Dino Rossi some sort of consolation prize? I mean, the runner up for Miss America gets a scholarship half the value (still $25K) of the winner’s. Maybe we could have Rossi be our backup Senator? You know, in case Murray or Cantwell feel sick or just want a day off, Rossi can step in and vote. I just feel bad for the guy.

Overall — I don’t understand the histrionics people are going into trying to explain the election results. People voted “D” in 2008 because they wanted “change,” without bothering to figure out what that meant. When they didn’t get the change they wanted (because they didn’t know what change they wanted), they voted this year to change it up. Guess what happens in 2012?

Partisanship — On both sides, the letter after the name means far too much. Alvin Greene (of “crazy even for South Carolina” fame) garnered 28 percent of the vote, while Sharron Angle and Christine O’Donnell (of “crazy by pretty much anyone’s definition” fame) received 45 and 40 percent of the vote, respectively. Maybe, just once, we could vote for the candidate rather than the party?

Elections — To refine a joke I made on Facebook, elections are a lot like drinking heavily: There’s a lot of confusion, the more you take in the worse you’ll be, and in the morning everybody mostly feels like throwing up.

So I figured I’d update you fools, as well as warn you this blog will (hopefully) get a little more active in the near future. Life has a tendency to run roughshod over the things we do in our free time, does it not? Well, that’s not entirely true — I actually have quite a bit of free time. I just don’t have the energy to be pumping out yet more words and original thoughts. I much prefer to absorb others’ via television, the Internets and books.

Copy editing is still my fave, despite how nerdy and/or boring it might seem to outsiders. Luckily, The Inlander‘s not too strict on job-description definitions, so I still get to review movies, books, DVDs and, as of this week, TV shows as well — in addition to regular reporting and blogging about the latest cultural ephemera to appear this week. It’s kind of the perfect situation for me, as I still get to dip my toe in the cultural ocean while still having a solid block of traditional journalism (including the entirety of Monday and Tuesday spent editing) to keep me sharp.* I also find myself using asteriskal asides quite often (probably possibly overusing them).

Outside of work, I try to think as little as possible. This largely consists of a) watching TV, b) reading books and c) drinking. So it’s pretty much college, except I don’t have to scramble at the last second to write essays I procrastinated about.**

As a quasi-interesting personal anecdote, for Halloween my costume consisted of a fake bisected butcher’s knife on my head (something like this, though mine was much larger and inexplicably made of real steel) with the June 2007 page of a desk calendar taped to my shirt.*** I confess to being suitably impressed that so many people “got” what my costume was supposed to be.

I’ve also learned to come to terms with Spokane. It’s not as awe-inspiringly impressive as Seattle (or at least, Seattle as I always picture it), but it’s got enough tall buildings downtown to present a reasonable image of a moderately large city. Plus, there are enough quirky restaurants and stores in the various neighborhoods (and, contrary to what I assumed when I first moved here, there are definite demarcations among neighborhoods here) to keep things interesting.

Anyhow, this is mostly just a notice: I’m coming out of semi-blogtirement. You’ve been warned.

* I’ve actually gotten considerably more pedantic when it comes to grammar, in both the connotative and denotative definitions of “pedantic.”
** Now I just do that for work!
*** June Cleaver.

Some of these may require you to stretch a bit, but just keep the following fetish categories in mind and you should be fine: anal, gangbang, beastiality, necrophilia and more. This is kind of gross, but it’s also kinda funny. I’m calling it a draw.

The A-Team
12 Angry Men
Die Hard
Cats and Dogs
Solitary Man
Furry Vengeance
12 Monkeys
The Departed
The Third Man
There Will Be Blood
The Elephant Man
Toy Story

Self-acclaimed literature is nearly impossible to review, due in large part to the nebulous nature of the category. “Literature” is ill-defined, whose boundaries shift for any number of reasons, least among which is whether the first letter is capitalized in normal usage.

On what basis can these books be judged? One possible course of action would be to set Freedom in a ring with Great Expectations and Middlesex to let them duke it out among themselves — but that would just leave us with Free Great Sex, and there’s not a public library in the world that’ll be able to stock that title without a load of grief.

Jonathan Franzen has it let it be known his book is intended to be interred among the ranks of literary fiction, for the high-minded to fawn over now and the teenagers of the future to be bored by later. Setting the intent of this self-aggrandizement aside, readers and reviewers alike must take care to frame the novel appropriately.

To do this, one must look to the title: Freedom. Ultimately, freedom — and, by extension, Freedom — comes down to choices. Difficult choices, no-brainers, impossible choices and choices that are made for you. The title, like with his earlier work (The Corrections) before it, is as much about helping the reader keep the novel’s purpose in mind as much as it is to sell more copies. The meandering, often disjointed story can be reined in by making sure the theme is at the forefront of your thoughts. It’s especially necessary because freedom is, at its core, a completely empty word. Essentially, it’s a stand-in for “limitless choice,” aka “everything.” And while everything is the opposite of nothing, it’s just as amorphous and chaotic a concept.

The plot of Freedom, such as it is, centers around the Berglunds, a Minnesota nuclear family going through more than their share of bewildering circumstances they must face up to or ignore, at their pleasure. It’s not really possible to plot the arc of the story, except to say that the main characters seem to be the heads of this particular household, with the husband, Walter, more central to the focus than the wife, Patty. Walter is a man deeply devoted to his wife, who adulates in his attention and loves him in return for it. Their children are quite complicated beings, though Jessica, the oldest, does not appear in the story in any meaningful way until much later.

Joey, the younger son, occupies a much more prominent role both in the story and the lives of the two main characters — fiercely independent (he moves out of the family home before his 17th birthday to live with the neighbors, where his girlfriend happens to reside) while at the same time not entirely comfortable cutting off all ties to his parents. There’s infinitely more to the story, but a fear of spoilers and a concern for space prohibit me from even listing all the main characters.

The plot, though somewhat easy to follow, is extraordinarily complex. Like Corrections, the book does not track in a strictly chronological order. This does not hamper comprehensibility too much, but it does require a bit of thinking to keep a finger on when and where various events occur, especially when focus shifts from one character to the next.

The hallmark of the modern Serious Novel can be found in the tribulations — sometimes more bewildering and unlikely than your average episode of The Young and the Restless — its characters must suffer. It’s tempting to think the author has confused “voluminous” problems for “interesting” ones, but luckily the book’s strength lies more in how the characters react to various outlandish circumstances than the situations themselves.

Of course, to take the mantle of literature a work must shoulder the load of society’s burdens, to tackle the big ideas that plague our collective consciousness. 9/11. two wars, disaffected youth, the pretentiousness of disaffected youth, the middle-aged condescension toward the pretentiousness of disaffected youth, the youthful indifference toward the middle-aged condescension … even selling out, which I’m not 100 percent certain exists as a concept even in the abstract anymore.

Luckily for him — and for us readers — Franzen doesn’t even attempt to provide answers but rather seeks understanding, exploration in lieu of explanation. Part of the reasoning for this is almost certainly pragmatic, as definitive diagnoses and prescriptions can be disagreed with, countered or even dismissed. But part surely must lie, as with all things in the book, rooted in the central idea of freedom. To proclaim a solution is to inhibit the freedom of the readers to judge and choose, and to provide an answer on our own.

The characters are remarkably fleshed-out and one of the best aspects of Franzen’s work. Psychology has replaced metaphor and simile as the literary devices used to drive home a universal truth or compelling point authors want to get across. Where Nathaniel Hawthorne spent an entire chapter crafting a synecdoche about a bush growing next to a prison door, Franzen and other modern writers dig deeply into the motivations, the worries, the fears and the thought processes behind a character’s actions. These insights are especially poignant when the characters themselves seem incognizant of their own reasoning; the specificity actually provides more opportunities to interpret rather than limiting possible explanations, as one might expect.

From a prosaic standpoint, there’s a noticeable difference from Corrections. Where before a 100-plus-word, single-sentence metaphor might be thrown in to illustrate how the character has trouble forgetting, Freedom saves the run-on sentences for advancing plot — or, failing that, at least fleshing out the scene further.

The writing is not without its flaws, however. A significant portion of the first chunk of the book is a third-person autobiographical portrait of Patty — despite ostensibly being written in her hand, there’s not much difference between it and the authorial lugubriousness exhibited by Franzen. It’s an uneven bit of writing Franzen rather awkwardly backforms by having other characters praise her writing abilities, but this praise occurs only after we’ve completed the manuscript — which none of the other characters have read. It’s a bit like if Transformers 3 suddenly introduces the fact that Sam is actually half-fish, and for the rest of the movie has the other characters note, “Man, he always was a really good swimmer” despite the entire movie taking place deep in the Sahara. Additionally, double negatives pepper the novel to create a slightly more effete tone to the writing, which is not un-annoying.

As far as recommendations go, Freedom is not going to be for everyone. It can probably be enjoyed passively, eyes jumping from work to word and sentence to sentence, but it’s going to be a slog. Instead, if you’re looking for a book to engage with and think about, you’ll find a worthy opponent in Freedom. As to its qualifications as literature, no one can speak to it with any — meaningful — authority. But then, even when the American Society of People Who Decide What Literature Is (this is not a euphemism for “Oprah”) comes down on one side or the other, you still have the freedom to ignore them and form your own judgment.

A heavily abridged version of this appears in the Sept. 9 issue of The Inlander.

I’m not entirely sure what I expected when I ordered my tickets for ArenaBowl XXIII for “STANDING ROOM ONLY.” Perhaps a corral where we would be led and allowed to roam around, like free-range chickens. “This is your pen, and this is where you must stay,” they’d say sternly, but we’d mill around and laugh and visit and generally enjoy ourselves.

I certainly didn’t expect to be renting my own little patch of airspace, all of 18 by 20 inches. The only indication of its existence was a one-row duct-taped grid, barely distinguishable from the concrete floor, with a little “1” scrawled in Sharpie.

But I was there to support the team, our Spokane Shock. My job, such as it was, revolved solely around screaming my lungs out while simultaneously sticking my fingers in my ears in an attempt to block out the steady low hum of the vuvuzelas so thoughtfully sold by the host team.

And so I stood in my box, eagerly.

The game got off to a bit of a slow start. I scanned the crowd, noticing some of the very same people who had stood out so conspicuously while waiting in line.

Most of the fans were properly outfitted in jerseys, official ArenaBowl shirts and other Shock-branded tees. Even among the less officially authorized clothing, some managed to nail the particular garish shade of Shock orange. They looked like human Cheetos, though decidedly of the “puffed” as opposed to “crunchy” variety.

Over there, a three-pack of neon redheads stood grinning in their sea-blue shirts like buzz-cut Troll dolls in policemen’s uniforms. And over there, next to the vuvuzela-clutching headache-in-waiting, a man who either tried to paint his face Avatar-blue and misplaced his hairline, or else applied his hair dye before going to sleep and passed the night in a frenzy of macking with his beloved pillow.

What I noticed about all of these fans was their location: in seats. Standing in front of their seats, to be more precise, as if taunting those of us who lacked accommodation for our posteriors. I shifted uneasily, trying to fend off a nice-looking middle-aged couple who unilaterally commandeered three squares, forcing me into a no-man’s land ungoverned by the duct tape.

And so I stood outside my box, warily.

There was still a game going on, I think — the Napa Auto Parts ArenaBowl XXIII. A thrilling sequence, that started with a “Toyota game ball in the stands” and was followed by a pair of “Dishman Dodge first downs,” culminated in a rather pedestrian “touchdown.” Fortunately, after the YMCA Kickoff Kid grabbed the tee — and on the heels of another Toyota game ball — the Shock defense managed a Papa Murphy’s takeaway, setting up the offense for some more Dishman Dodges and ultimately another … touchdown.

It was all terribly exciting. But it was getting to be around halftime, and my legs were starting to ache. I glanced around at my fellow standees, and most of them — though cheering — appeared to be preoccupied with alleviating pain: Doubled over to ease the strain, crouching, leaning against the wall …

I glared at the Sitters, who were of course standing. How dare they take their seats for granted? How we Standers longed for the gentle cupping of our buttocks by those plastic blue thrones, sinking in to those rigid, unforgiving slabs and literally taking the load off our backs. Where they could pile their hot dogs, their nachos and their taco salads on their knees, we set our popcorn on the floor and kicked over one another’s Bud Lights.

I fantasized a coup, a hostile takeover, in which we would remove from them their laps of luxury and line them up against the wall, just as they had done to us. But they were too numerous, and we too tired.

And so I stood in my box, uncomfortably.

The rest of the game passed in a blur. The paradox of the sports fan began to assert itself. Despite the outrageous lengths you may go to acquire a suit stitched from what can only be melted traffic cones and then wave around a bloated, grotesquely lifelike orange hand, you still must subordinate yourself to the team.

Though you wish to be recognized for your devotion, ultimately it’s not about you. And when your team is on the verge of winning it all, the arbitrary divisions between fans come down. Eight-year-olds and 80-year-olds beam alike, tripping in the heady haze provided by the proximity of champions. Standers and Sitters …

I have one small confession to make: I bailed at halftime. And though the fans at my next stop were more generous with their advice to the players (“Don’t talk to the press, get your head in the game!”) and loquacious in their constructive criticism of the referees (“I don’t even know what that call means, you encephalopathic zebra!”), they cheered all the same as we watched the clock tick down and the ArenaBowl trophy being trotted out. Whether at the Arena or miles away, a “championship atmosphere” formed wherever the fans congregated.

And so I sat on my barstool, contentedly.

This story was originally published in the Aug. 26 issue of The Inlander. I’m republishing it here because I <3 it (and, by extension, myself) so much.

Hoo boy! As a [technology writer/reporter without a story idea/old person], I’ve seen my share of changes in life. But [new product] is about to completely alter [area in which new technology will have extremely slight impact].

I was at [public place] the other day when I saw a young person extricate [latest technological obsession] from her purse. Now, I don’t disparage [Generation X or newer] their technological revolutions, but it seems to me that [outdated technology people don't use as much but is still prevalent] works just fine, for my purposes.

See, my generation, the [any generation older than X, whose name invariably invokes a more positive connotation than more recent ones], we didn’t need your fancy new [latest technological obsession] for [arduous chore made easier by modern advancements, but still possible to perform "the hard way"]. We were happy as [animals commonly presumed to be in a constant state of rapture] with [old technology] — it may have taken longer, but that was the way we liked it.

You see, with the [fancy new technology], people aren’t able to [incidental advantage of old technology no one noticed/cared about until new technology]. Why, when we wanted to talk to one another, we just [verb for specific type of communication]ed on our [technology two generations removed; old enough to be nostalgic about, but young enough to masquerade at least a passing interest in technological advancements].

[Obligatory reference to that goddamn Nicholas Carr article/book about about how the Internet is imploding our brains].

I don’t see why young people today feel the need to live their lives so quickly, or expensively. Sometimes, you just need to take the time to [verb indicating the activation of one of the senses] the [pages/roses/other noun that often evokes nostalgia or pleasure]. That’s why I refuse to buy [advanced technology]. I’m perfectly happy with [older technology that's itself a vast improvement over how things "used to be done"] — the way things used to be [until a newer version of the advanced technology comes out and I can bitch about that while upgrading to the previous generation without seeming hypocritical].

One day, when [generation too young to have a name yet] grows up, they won’t remember the feel of [physical object being replaced by technology], or the joy of browsing [physical store replaced by Amazon, et. al] to spontaneously find [physical object]. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think being [verbified formation of name of new technology] necessarily means [pun-ish play on verbified name of thing being replaced by new technology].

See the inspiration for this guide here.

For almost all purposes, Iraq has no government. Almost six months after national elections, the country’s politicians remain unable to compromise and cut a deal, showing the persistent lack of maturity and vision that has earned the political class the justifiable contempt of the Iraqi public.

- George Packer, A Date That Will Live In Oblivion.

It’s easy to point out the darkness of coloring of the respective kitchen implements in this statement, but the more pressing question is why no one seems to think this is a problem at all in our country.