Month: May 2004

babysit the guv

I had to babysit the governor yesterday, and here’s the story that came out of it.
(For the record, “to babysit” is not a derogatory term in the journo world. It just means “to attend and cover a function at which an important person is expected to attend — even if no news is expected to be generated.”)

other joshua bentons

When I meet someone, he/she always gets Googled. This freaks some people out. (Probably not crabwalk.com readers, who I imagine are more Internet-savvy than most. But it can freak out the civilians.) And quite often, when someone meets me, he/she will return the favor and Google me.
There’s one problem, though: I’m not the only Joshua Benton out there. And that can lead to some difficult questions.
I remember a couple years ago, going on a first date with someone. A couple days later we were talking. “I Googled you,” she said. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
There was an ever-so-slight accusatory tone in her voice. “Um, I have this web site, crabwalk.com?”
“No, I know about that. Something else.”
Turns out she was freaked out that “Josh Benton” was writing awful fan fiction dedicated to some comic book characters named Logan and Ororo. She’s a fellow writer, and she was disturbed that she thought I was capable of writing crap like this:
“The rough looking man named Tracker, well his expression didn’t change much one way or the other. He was here to do a job, and even as Logan spoke he was scanning the room, trying to gain a more accurate fix on his prey. As for the woman who called herself Steel Dragon, she just laughed, the sound like bells tinkling. ‘Oh but Logan, I’m not giving you any sort of choice in the matter. I am here to retrieve something and then leave, and if you stand in my way, then you will be put down.'”
For the record, that’s not me.
Also for the record, I’m also not this Josh Benton (“Josh Benton is a 20-year-old Print Journalism major at the University of Florida. He has Tourette’s Syndrome and obsessive-compulsive disorder”).
I’m also not the Sea Captain/Street Preacher in this play, I’m not this Marine based in Japan, I’m not this underachieving high jumper, and I’m not this critic of the Northern Ireland peace process (although I did write this lame piece on the Northern Ireland peace process back in ’99).
But at least all those are real people. I’m also not the various fictional Josh Bentons out there. There’s a Joshua Benton in Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres, mentioned in an aside as a potential love interest. I’m also apparently the centerpiece of Clubhouse Threat, Margo Sorenson’s teen novel on the wonders of juvy golf:
“Fourteen-year-old Joshua Benton is stuck between a sand trap and a hard place. Caddying at Glenwood Country Club is the only summer job where he can earn enough for football camp. But unlike football, a real guy’s sport, golf is a sport for wimps. And his friends will laugh at him for carrying golf clubs around for stuffy old country club members…
“Becoming a caddie is almost as hard as school. Joshua has to interview for the position, train for five weeks and pass a test, watch his ‘smart mouth,’ and put up with the head honor caddie’s needling. Then the real trouble starts when the Country Club offers a golf clinic for inner-city kids in Joshua’s neighborhood and someone frames them as thieves! As he plots to catch the real thief, Joshua relies on principles he is learning from the game of golf.”
While I’ve heard the “smart mouth” thing before, I’ve never played golf in my life.
Finally, there’s Episode 110 of Secret Horizons, which appears to be some sort of online soap opera. I present the entire scene for your reading enjoyment:
“Why do you want to know about Joshua Benton?” Gwen asked, raising her eyes from Liza’s plans for the ball to Hallie giving her a searching look. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” Hallie replied carefully, going over her story in her head. It would never do to have Gwen curious. “I was talking to Denise Cleary at the PAC and she mentioned bringing a ballet troupe to the Glen. She said he was available if they needed a director and I just wondered who he was. I assumed you would know,” Hallie added.
“I do know Joshua Benton…but not very well,” Gwen answered warily. “He might agree to help a new ballet.” She leaned back in her chair. “I’m sorry Hallie. I don’t buy your story. I know you want me to but I don’t. Why are you really interested in Joshua?”
“You’re far too suspicious,” Hallie answered sharply.
“Am I? I think I might have good cause to be suspicious of you, Hallie.” Gwen stood and passed her niece to the open door. She glanced outside quickly before closing the door, secreting them both inside for the time being. “So, are you going to tell me why you want to know about Joshua Benton? Or are you going to make me guess?”
“Truthfully,” Hallie replied with an airy laugh. “I think you’re being ridiculous. I was curious…that is all.”
“Right. I’m not buying it.”
“Well, I don’t care if you believe me or not,” Hallie returned rolling her eyes. Gwen was a dead end, that was certain. She would have to try Ellen later. “I was curious, I’m sorry if you don’t trust me.”
“Trust you?!” Gwen laughed aloud at Hallie’s comment, her hand covering her mouth as she did. “Trust you. That is rich coming from the very person who only a few months ago was trying to destroy my family.”
“Wait a minute,” Hallie shot back, getting instantly annoyed with Gwen’s implication. “First of all, I was not out to destroy your family. Just you. Secondly, you’re the one who forced me out of ME! You knew I wanted to run ME and yet you still begged Jamie to come home and take over from Dane.”
“ME is Jamie’s inheritance,” Gwen answered haughtily.
“You mean Jude’s. He is your first born after all. Or have you forgotten that already?” Hallie snapped back. “You did deny him his identity after all.”
“You are the most self-centered, selfish, and vain woman I have ever met. And I have no inclination to help you no matter what your dirty little plan is,” Gwen replied coldly. “Whatever it is you need Joshua Benton for, you can find it out on your own.”
Hallie opened her mouth to respond sharply but thought better of it. Instead, she marched past her aunt to the closed door and yanked it open. Without looking back, she headed straight for the front door. There was no need staying here and letting Gwen upset her. She pulled the door open and came face to face with Stephen.
“What are you doing here?” Hallie demanded. Stephen raised his eyebrows in surprise taking a step back from her. “Well? What are you doing here, Stephen?”
For the record, though, if a new ballet comes to town — sure, I’ll help out.
I haven’t read the other episodes, but apparently I get a little action with Liza later on. And later still: It was a lie. She stared at Matty’s birth certificate. Father’s name: Daniel Benton. Hallie had her information right. Joshua Benton was Matty’s father not Danny. And had Joshua Benton known, he would have taken her son away without hesitating. Galen was right. She would do whatever it took to protect her son from a man who would do more damage than good.

a network called internet

“A network called ‘Internet,'” an awesome 1993 introduction to the subject from the CBC. Ah, the days when “the Internet” was just “Internet,” kind of like “Skeletor,” “She-Ra,” or “Beyonce.” Also, the days when “Internet” was, for CBC purposes, a synonym for “Usenet.”
Six days before this piece aired, I was busy posting on rec.sport.basketball.college, comparing the careers of UNC centers Eric Montross and Scott Williams.

donuts is

I’ve been rereading The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the English Language the last few nights. (Yeah, I’m a geek.) For anyone even remotely interested in language, it’s an interesting primer on the language’s evolution over the centuries. (It’s particularly fascinating on dialects — the ways in which, say, New Zealand English differs from Australian English, or how what people speak in Alabama differs from what they speak in Minnesota.)
Anyway, last night I was reading a short section on West Indies English, and how it’s a unique variant in part because the region has both British and American English influences in close proximity. That’s when I noticed this (you can see it here, in the box at page bottom):
“Puerto Rico became part of the USA following the Spanish-American war in 1898. Donuts is one of the consequences.”
The donut reference is to an accompanying photo of “Raul’s Mini Donuts”; the point the author is making is that Puerto Ricans spell the word “donuts” and not the British “doughnuts.”
But: “Donuts is one of the consequences”? Donuts is?
Is this right? It’s a book about the English language, so I presume an editor would have caught it if it’s wrong. And I can understand the way in which “donuts” is being used as a concept, not a number of items. (As in, “The donut is one of the consequences.”) We’re talking about the Platonic ideal of a donut, the ur-donut. Or if the word donuts had been put in quotes, making it a clear reference to the word “Donuts” in the Raul’s sign, I could sign on.
But isn’t it wrong the way it’s written? Or am I showing my American English bias? I know I’ve got some copy-editor readers — hook me up, people.

fucking car break in

Summer 2001: Hoodlum breaks into my car, tries to steal CD player. Luckily, hoodlum is stoopid and can’t figure out how to get it out. Steals a cell phone.
September 2002: Hoodlum smashes left rear window, breaks into my car, successfully steals CD player. Also randomly pours a bottle of Coke on my backseat.
August 2003: Hoodlum smashes right rear window (thank heavens for variety!), breaks into my car, successfully steals my CD player. Also takes about $40 (estim.) in change. Leaves my TollTag and my Texas state map.
Last night: You’ll never guess! Hoodlum smashes my left rear window, breaks into my car, successfully steals my CD player. Completely rips apart the car’s central console in the process, ripping out my air conditioner and fucking up the electronics so that my turn signals (and god knows what else) don’t work. Steals about $60 (estim.) in change. Leaves my TollTag, my Mapsco, and my Parking Spot repeat-customer card.
Those motherfuckers who run my fucking apartment complex did their usual blame-the-victim schtick when I called them a minute ago. (“Oh, you must have left some valuables in clear view!” Um, actually no, fuckface — even took off the detachable face on my stereo.)
At least I’ve established a number of meaningful business relationships with auto-glass repair shops, thanks to all the smashing experiences Post Uptown Village has provided me. I think this is the latest in a long string of incidents conspiring to tell me something: It is time to move far, far away from here.
I’ve said it before, and if history tells us anything, I’ll probably say it again. But to Hoodlums No. 1 through 4 and the mind-blowing cretins at Post Properties, I give a rousing:
Thanks, assholes!