I've been wanting to blog about Hurricane Katrina, and how I can't imagine such a changed New Orleans. I've wanted to link to some stories of triumph, and of reporters who keep working around the clock (and who ultimately help get the word out, so more people will give to the cause) even when flooded out of their newsrooms.
But the information is overwhelming, and I can't sum it up. What I do know is that I can't picture New Orleans under water. When I was there, it was a little more than a month after 9/11. Despite a recent national tragedy, the city was still full of life and spirit, and I still saw everything from alligators to the Mississippi River. A hurricane was a good drink, not a storm. Alligators were supposed to always be there, and the Superdome was a a solid mass outside my hotel. Boats were restricted to the swamps and the river.
Whether you're a journalist or have some other profession, it's always a good thing to make someone laugh. When I did that today -- while also getting the source's attention with some interesting information -- and got a loud laugh, I knew things were going well. I knew things were going even better when I was offered a cell phone number.
However, the source then managed to floor and impress me by guessing my ethnicity. I can't remember the last time someone did that, especially since I'm as white as you can get, so people just subconsciously think "white" and then move on. Every once in a while someone makes some Irish quip because of my hair, but that almost doesn't count. It impressed the heck out of me.
In other news, I am soliciting ideas regarding why my neighbor hollers "Bang! Bang!" when he takes the trash out.
Ever had a dream in which you had a very long commute to work -- by dolphin? If that had been on my list of things to do, I could now cross it off said list. Of course, it would help if I had such a list, but that's beside the point.
As if that long, involved dream wasn't enough, I then switched gears and dreamed about opposing lawyers suddenly teaming up. (Yes, this happens all the time. No, it would never happen in the case I dreamed of.) Maybe a fun party last night led to these dreams.
Six months ago, I blogged about the arrest of Wichita's self-dubbed "BTK" (bind, torture, kill) killer. I'd heard of the case previously -- in part because BTK resurfaced in 2004 when the Wichita Eagle wrote a big story to mark 30 years since the first victim was killed. As a crime reporter, it was certainly intriguing for me to see just how much power an article can have.
Since then, I've followed the Eagle's impressive coverage. The national media spotlight returned to Wichita today, as the sentencing hearing got underway. Decades after the church president and admitted serial killer plunged the area into permanent fear, it's coming to a close.
What has interested me perhaps more than anything else is the crime reporter who has followed the BTK case for close to 20 years. Today, he watched on TV and kept a running blog-type commentary. (It reads in reverse, with newest stuff on top and updates separated by bold type.) When this is over and Dennis Rader goes off to prison, a huge book is going to close not only for the police department but for the reporter, who has probably heard an incredible amount of off-the-record stuff about this case over the years. He'll no doubt be filled with relief that the killer was finally caught. But he'll probably feel a strange, unexplainable void. I imagine the cops will, too.
So I just updated my Web site. Did you know that I even have a site? Yes, this blog is technically a subsidiary of thesmudge.com. I think I'd almost forgotten, too.
But don't get your hopes up too much: Comments here are still broken. Some people regularly e-mail comments instead (Hi David!), and that has to suffice for now. When I'm rich and famous -- or just rich, no, just motivated -- comments will work again. I promise.
I have a feeling everybody on the planet gets spam from people claiming to be from a far-off country, looking for some help in exchange for millions of dollars. The latest one to hit my inbox got off to an amusing start: "Do accept my sincere apologies if my mail does not meet your personal ethics."
Mr. Brun Cale goes on to say: "I have secretly resolved to find a reliable foreign partner to deal with. I thus propose to do business with you."
Who on earth writes this stuff? And who really falls for it? Those people -- the writers and the fallers alike -- really ought to be banned from the Internet.
The world is being stupid and frustrating, and a coffee frappuccino didn't help as I had hoped it might. Little things don't usually get to me, and my sister has actually gotten mad on occasion because I'm "so damn cheerful." But now the little things are just getting me more and more uptight and annoyed.
I think it's all linked to a suicide that has shocked/saddened/angered me -- which has, in turn, resurrected the same feelings over a May suicide that also really upset me. And though those two suicides are the most upsetting, this seems to have been suicide summer for me. I'm not the type to ever consider suicide, but it's pretty mind-blowing when someone else does it, and those feelings get compounded when more people do it. Maybe after I attend Monday's funeral all of them will be behind me.
I'm not sure what the point of this entry was. But it's my blog, so I'll write what I want to write, when I want to.
Hurricane Katrina
I've been wanting to blog about Hurricane Katrina, and how I can't imagine such a changed New Orleans. I've wanted to link to some stories of triumph, and of reporters who keep working around the clock (and who ultimately help get the word out, so more people will give to the cause) even when flooded out of their newsrooms.But the information is overwhelming, and I can't sum it up. What I do know is that I can't picture New Orleans under water. When I was there, it was a little more than a month after 9/11. Despite a recent national tragedy, the city was still full of life and spirit, and I still saw everything from alligators to the Mississippi River. A hurricane was a good drink, not a storm. Alligators were supposed to always be there, and the Superdome was a a solid mass outside my hotel. Boats were restricted to the swamps and the river.
All of that is changed now.
Posted by Layla at 10:47 PM, August 31, 2005. Comments (0)