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By Jonathan Gibbs
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With this column, I seek to combine my old-timey newshound self with my new modernized news self, mix in the blogosphere’s self-indulgent tendencies and spew forth the jumbled thoughts in my head straight onto this page in one furious blast. In this neo-gonzo Frankensteinian journalism, I will wed Al Gore’s Web with Gutenberg’s printed word by dumping my random thoughts once a week no matter how ludicrous, slight or weird. Finally, absurdity will get equal treatment with profundity.
In my endeavors, I promise not to cheat by using any actual book as a reference; I will to rely on SpelCzech and Wikipedia in lieu of a dictionary and encyclopedia. If I need a word – or fact – and can’t find it in my memory or online, I will make one up. As for rules of grammar, syntax or order of events depicted, I will go with the spirit of most blogging: if I have forgotten a rule, I’ll just make up a new one. Self rules rather than grammar rules will rule.
One of the commonly-held perceptions of the news reporter is that we are a predatory band of self-absorbed egomaniacs with inferiority complexes always on the lookout for free food, worthless baubles and attention, carrying an over-developed sense of justice which we wield with self-righteous venom in order to bring those who are smarter, better-looking and more wealthy than us to their knees with the slightest of justifiable legal and/or moral provocations.
Okay, fair enough. That pretty much true. I’ve been known to line my threadbare herringbone jacket pockets with plastic baggies and bring home handfuls of ziti and meatballs. I've palmed campaign buttons from tables for no reason other than the candidate’s name amused me. Somewhere I’ve got a “Futz for Selectman” button. Really.
But newsgathering is not all gut (filling) and glory (mongering). Sometimes we have to put up with events, situations and people that would make a stoned Three-toed sloth bolt the room and run screaming into traffic to escape the tedium.
Last week’s work calendar had two events that offered the potential for emotional torment and psychic pain: A meeting with a politician and an annual business dinner.
The politician was Frank T. Caprio, currently the RI General Treasurer, and he was in the area (as defined in this state by anything not called Providence) ostensibly to talk about money and moneyish-like things that I guess explain why the money that’s either coming in or going out is either owed or taxed, is or isn’t really what it is and isn’t where it is supposed to be.
I confess that I don’t understand money as it is defined by what the green paper with the presidents’ faces on it means in relation to a bar of gold in a subterranean vault somewhere. And when the talk gets specific as it relates to governmental funding and paying out projected state pensions 30 years from now, I am totally befuddled as to what that means to me. Recently when my brother asked how we were paying for a garage we had added on to the house, I was stunned and stupefied. I know my wife went to talk to somebody about a morgue gauge a while back and shortly after that a guy with wood and stuff came over and he hit sharp things into the wood until my car fit inside it. But the only real answer I could come up with was; “Uh, I don’t know; is there such a thing as a Garage Fairy?”
So my expectation of an afternoon with the state treasurer was that I would spend several hours of my life trying to remain upright while my mind was downright and communing with the humming thrum of the building’s oil burner. I knew I couldn’t follow without having stuff come out of me ears I could never get back in.
We recently had a meeting with a retiring judge during which I had an out-of-body experience. This judge, we’ll call him Frank because, well, because that’s his name, was telling us about all the splendid accomplishments he has achieved and my mind drifted up to the pockmarked tile in the office and I looked down on a Jon Gibbs cartoon. In the cartoon a cloud appeared above my cartoon head inside of which cartoon Jon Gibbs was imagining a third Jon Gibbs hitting a small, red rubber ball with a palm-sized paddle that was attached to the ball by a rubber band. I started to count.the number of times cartoon- in- a-cartoon-Jon Gibbs hit the ball without missing. “1, 2, 3, oops!” I started again. “1,2,3, 4, 5, 6, oops!” “1,2,3. . .27, 28, oops.”
Now I know most people would want to break a Guiness Book of World Records mark for consecutive hits in their out of body reverie, but I couldn’t do that. I am, after, a professional, paid journalist sworn to uphold reality and I can hit a red rubber ball about as well as I can balance a checkbook. Which is why I am a paid journalist and not receiving bailout money or playing tennis on the Senior Circuit.
Well, I went to the meeting last week with even grander fantasy plans. I was going to pit the 1985 Chicago Bears against the 2008 Chinese Girls Olympic Gymnastics team in a game of No-contact Twister. It was complicated enough, I thought, to get me through the afternoon without moving my lips to count as I had with the judge.
But then, something happened. I understood what Caprio was saying. He explained what his office does and what some of the problems are that the state will face in these dire economic times. He had some answers as to how teacher contracts and state workers salaries can be addresed. And it dawned on me that he was there to float the balloon of a possible candidacy for governor. Now, a ballon on the ceiling – that, I could relate to.
Last Thursday night, I was booked to go to the East Greenwich Chamber of Commerce Annual Dinner. Often these affairs feature soggy food, cheap displays of incomprehensible business ventures and hour upon hour of ill-conceived speeches by speakers who mumble insipid inanities. These Thorazine-Dream dinners are occasionally even held in honor of us, the journalists who should know better than staging such tedium. It was during one of these events about two decades ago that I had my moment in the testimonial dinner sun. The New England Chapter of the Future Farmers of America were the hosts, and we were the Scrod-Eaters and Meatball-Swillers being hosted. Returning to my seat after one of my many trips back from the free bar, I forgot I had set down a plate of Swedish meatballs on my chair so I could keep my camera safe on the table. Well, gravity happened and I smushed the meatballs onto the backside of my powder-blue slacks. I covered that up by pretending it hadn’t happened. It was cold outside and the meatballs were warm, so I figured, hey, I’ll just remain idle and leave after everyone else.
But, the gods love a fool. I won an award for a three-part series on a Voc-Ag school. I went from loser to winner back to loser so fast I got dizzy. But, I got up and mustered as much dignity as I could, went down the aisle, up the stairs, crossed the stage it, got the proffered placque, shook a couple of hands and returned to my seat, red-faced and brown-bottomed. I tried not to notice the quizzical looks. Back at my seat, the Voc-Ag teacher from the school I covered leaned over and said, “Dude, you are so one of us!” It felt good to belong to something.
Anyway, last week’s venture to the Chamber’s dinner was one I sort of dreaded. I know a lot of the people, am related to a few, but still was not looking forward to sitting in a fold-up chair in a torpor that would embarrass a Rock lizard while waiting for the ersatz Jello to arrive. But then I had the second surprise of the week. I had a good time. The food was available at conveniently-located food stations and we could either stay at our booth and greet people or walk the floor and meet people. It lasted only two hours, I met a lot of interesting people and I got a wealth of story ideas from other guests. And you know what? I hope some of them are stories about money. I am looking forward to trying to understand them.
Now if anyone can tell me what a morgue gauge is . .
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