In August, I did a guest spot on the public radio show "Homeland Security: Inside and Out" about some drills the state was doing to prepare for catastrophic events such as a major earthquake or, as it turns out, the governor's marriage. But I never could get anyone to tell me when they used me, so I assumed that I was so bad they just scrapped the segment.
But hohoho, what's this? While frantically casting about the Internet in search of a job (see previous post if you're confused about why I'm unemployed), I came across some random blog that had me listed as a "civilian analyst" of public safety practices based on comments they heard me make on the radio. So it turns out my segment did air, and you can stream it via RealPlayer here. My part starts at 1:30 or so, and isn't bad at all considering it was 8 a.m. West Coast time and I was super nervous.
(If for some reason you can't make it play, visit the archive and scroll down to Aug. 12 to download the whole show.)
In conclusion, I'm going to need everyone to begin referring to me as "the civilian analyst" immediately. FOX News, here I come.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
The market hates you, and other lessons learned too late
Being fired has never worried me much. Even during bright economic times, I've known plenty of folks who regularly stayed up nights convinced that they were on the verge of termination for some offhand comment or fleeting mistake they'd made on the job that day.
Almost always, the boss hadn't even noticed or didn't care. Not that that stopped them from losing sleep the next time they filed a TPS report in the wrong drawer.
Experiences like that definitely informed my view on job security, but I was different from most employees right from the start. In college, some trusting soul believed that I could be trusted to oversee the summer tenants of the new apartment-style dorm. My tenure was cut tragically short after it was alleged that my residents enjoyed somewhat more relaxed alcohol policies than those outlined in the student handbook and that my roommates had somehow learned to circumvent the brand-new security system.
Even then, consigned to several weeks of couch surfing before the next semester started, I was more relieved than upset. I was getting tired of being "the man," and I still had a few dollars and a new girlfriend who would now have no choice but to let me sleep over. Unfortunately, sudden unemployment turned out not to be the fast track to her heart.
I realize now that my laissez-faire attitude toward employment is a luxury of someone who has never been truly poor. Even at my lowest point, I still had a bed in a heated apartment and all the Pop-Tarts I could eat. While I did eventually learn the exquisitely sharp focus a rejected debit card can bring to a man's life, I've never feared that things would not get better.
If one were going to fear such a thing, though, now might be an appropriate time. Anyone reading this is likely aware that the Reno Gazette-Journal's parent company is eliminating more than 2,000 jobs this month, including 61 locally. It sucks. It's scary in the grand scheme of things, especially for those of us suddenly seeking work in a damaged business deep in the bowels of a recession. And yet these days, it's not an especially remarkable action.
Think about that for a second. Just a few years ago, a payroll cut of 15 percent in most industry-leading companies would have been a Wall Street-rocking, bourbon-swilling disaster for everyone involved, from the day trader trying to unload a quarter-million shares all the way down to the grunt on the work floor. Now it's just the cost of doing business in an unpredictable marketplace: One in 10 families may be asked to forgo dinner for the good of the shareholders.
I'm being melodramatic, of course. History shows that most folks will get by (although perhaps not in the high style to which they've become accustomed) and that a volatile market does not necessarily mean the end of the world.
As one executive recently put it, every forest must endure an occasional wildfire if it is to remain healthy.
But you'll notice that the people using these clever nature metaphors tend to be the guys with flamethrowers rather than the saplings going up in flames. This is no doubt a hard time for everyone, but anyone arguing that a middle manager being asked to fire a friend is suffering just as much as a single mom who got her walking papers from Chromalloy two weeks before Christmas needs to get out more.
Which brings us to a lesson that I, like much of my generation, have not had to learn until now: Your employer is not your friend. No matter how well it treats you or how many of your real friends it employs, it is just an entity that exists to serve a purpose. And unless you are self-employed, that purpose is not to take care of you. Your well-being is at best a happy side-effect and at worst a regrettable but necessary expense. All workers are ultimately disposable and the most painful part of the current crisis is that it is making millions of people who believed they were exceptional face that fact.
So now what? Is this the part where we pull ourselves up by our American-made bootstraps and march out of the woods once more? Where a cool new president crashes through the boardroom door and saves the hostages in the nick of time? No one can know. But when I was informed last week that I had somehow wandered onto the express train to the poor house, the first thing I did was reach out to other workers, both to help them and to help myself. Whatever happens, I'm pretty sure the only way most of us are going to get out of this mess is together.
Almost always, the boss hadn't even noticed or didn't care. Not that that stopped them from losing sleep the next time they filed a TPS report in the wrong drawer.
Experiences like that definitely informed my view on job security, but I was different from most employees right from the start. In college, some trusting soul believed that I could be trusted to oversee the summer tenants of the new apartment-style dorm. My tenure was cut tragically short after it was alleged that my residents enjoyed somewhat more relaxed alcohol policies than those outlined in the student handbook and that my roommates had somehow learned to circumvent the brand-new security system.
Even then, consigned to several weeks of couch surfing before the next semester started, I was more relieved than upset. I was getting tired of being "the man," and I still had a few dollars and a new girlfriend who would now have no choice but to let me sleep over. Unfortunately, sudden unemployment turned out not to be the fast track to her heart.
I realize now that my laissez-faire attitude toward employment is a luxury of someone who has never been truly poor. Even at my lowest point, I still had a bed in a heated apartment and all the Pop-Tarts I could eat. While I did eventually learn the exquisitely sharp focus a rejected debit card can bring to a man's life, I've never feared that things would not get better.
If one were going to fear such a thing, though, now might be an appropriate time. Anyone reading this is likely aware that the Reno Gazette-Journal's parent company is eliminating more than 2,000 jobs this month, including 61 locally. It sucks. It's scary in the grand scheme of things, especially for those of us suddenly seeking work in a damaged business deep in the bowels of a recession. And yet these days, it's not an especially remarkable action.
Think about that for a second. Just a few years ago, a payroll cut of 15 percent in most industry-leading companies would have been a Wall Street-rocking, bourbon-swilling disaster for everyone involved, from the day trader trying to unload a quarter-million shares all the way down to the grunt on the work floor. Now it's just the cost of doing business in an unpredictable marketplace: One in 10 families may be asked to forgo dinner for the good of the shareholders.
I'm being melodramatic, of course. History shows that most folks will get by (although perhaps not in the high style to which they've become accustomed) and that a volatile market does not necessarily mean the end of the world.
As one executive recently put it, every forest must endure an occasional wildfire if it is to remain healthy.
But you'll notice that the people using these clever nature metaphors tend to be the guys with flamethrowers rather than the saplings going up in flames. This is no doubt a hard time for everyone, but anyone arguing that a middle manager being asked to fire a friend is suffering just as much as a single mom who got her walking papers from Chromalloy two weeks before Christmas needs to get out more.
Which brings us to a lesson that I, like much of my generation, have not had to learn until now: Your employer is not your friend. No matter how well it treats you or how many of your real friends it employs, it is just an entity that exists to serve a purpose. And unless you are self-employed, that purpose is not to take care of you. Your well-being is at best a happy side-effect and at worst a regrettable but necessary expense. All workers are ultimately disposable and the most painful part of the current crisis is that it is making millions of people who believed they were exceptional face that fact.
So now what? Is this the part where we pull ourselves up by our American-made bootstraps and march out of the woods once more? Where a cool new president crashes through the boardroom door and saves the hostages in the nick of time? No one can know. But when I was informed last week that I had somehow wandered onto the express train to the poor house, the first thing I did was reach out to other workers, both to help them and to help myself. Whatever happens, I'm pretty sure the only way most of us are going to get out of this mess is together.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Big changes in strawberry land
At last, new Forced Perspective. And this one's set in Watsonville while I was on vacation in California a couple weeks ago. I also made it to Yosemite (awesome, if moist) and San Francisco (lame, but not through any fault of the city's). All nice places, as long as you don't have to worry about paying rent.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Now and tonight
And so, with a pronouncement from the Cable News Network and a series of pints of Dead Guy Ale, our long national nightmare is over. It's Obama and, assuming we can prevent him from getting shot for 75 days, the end of the third or fourth most ridiculous passage of American history.
In spite of the fact that a victory I once thought fantastic has become real, I don't feel much but tired, afraid and buzzed. Tired, because if this is what a 21st Century presidential election is, how ever will we as a nation sustain another one, let alone 100 more?
Afraid, because Barack Obama will not be able to heal the entire planet within four (or even eight) years and when he fails, I believe that about half of the country will chain him to a Jesus complex no one other than his opponent professed and vote against him as the rabid liberal he never was. And buzzed because Sarah showed up at my apartment three sheets to the wind with a six pack just as I arrived home from professionally pretending that I think Rep. Dean Heller can adequately represent a junior high school volleyball team, let alone the state of Nevada.
But now. Tonight. Now and tonight, prospects are good. I've acquired a small pile of phone numbers over the past week, I have tomorrow off and Elizabeth Dole has gone down in ignominious defeat. After a decade or so, things may in fact may have just taken a nice bounce for the 28-year-old reporters of the world and I do believe that I'll have myself another drink and raise it to the first African American president of the United States.
In spite of the fact that a victory I once thought fantastic has become real, I don't feel much but tired, afraid and buzzed. Tired, because if this is what a 21st Century presidential election is, how ever will we as a nation sustain another one, let alone 100 more?
Afraid, because Barack Obama will not be able to heal the entire planet within four (or even eight) years and when he fails, I believe that about half of the country will chain him to a Jesus complex no one other than his opponent professed and vote against him as the rabid liberal he never was. And buzzed because Sarah showed up at my apartment three sheets to the wind with a six pack just as I arrived home from professionally pretending that I think Rep. Dean Heller can adequately represent a junior high school volleyball team, let alone the state of Nevada.
But now. Tonight. Now and tonight, prospects are good. I've acquired a small pile of phone numbers over the past week, I have tomorrow off and Elizabeth Dole has gone down in ignominious defeat. After a decade or so, things may in fact may have just taken a nice bounce for the 28-year-old reporters of the world and I do believe that I'll have myself another drink and raise it to the first African American president of the United States.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Your blindness is temporary; do not be alarmed
Of the many disorienting, gratifying and horrifying things people have said to me first thing on a Friday morning, one is likely to remain near the front of my memory: "You are about to experience eight to 10 seconds of blindness. Stay calm."
Several masked, gloved and capped Lasik doctors leaned over me, seemingly fascinated by my impending sightlessness. Over 28 years' worth of hospital visits, I've noticed that the more concerned you are about a procedure or exam, the larger the crowd of people surrounding the patient seems to become. Right now, I was seeing a damned battalion of laser jockeys and a sizable detachment of corneal infantrymen, fixing bayonets as they marched inexorably toward my face. In reality, there were probably about two of them.
Until a month ago, I'd worn contact lenses for years. Early this year, my left eye decided this arrangement was no longer acceptable and started turning red and swelling whenever I so much as thought about putting a lens in it. In addition to granting me a striking resemblance to Bill the Cat from the old comic strip Bloom County, it itched like hell, which made me constantly irritable and distracted. Not that that distinguished me from most other reporters these days, but I was still eager to correct things.
My optometrist knew immediately what was wrong but had no advice other than to stop wearing the contacts and see what developed. What developed was a raw spot on the bridge of my nose that hadn't been there since junior high — the last time I'd worn glasses for weeks on end — and an aura that reportedly made me "just adorable like Harry Potter" (and, for a trying several months, just as dateable). After my eye showed little improvement, I puffed up my chest and called a Reno Lasik doctor who does business with my dad.
Which was how I found myself prostrate under what looked like the bombing sight from a B-52 with a microkeratone (pronounced: a freaking eye blade) poised a millimeter from my pupil and a purple stuffed snake clutched in my hands. I gallantly refused the snake at first, but the nurse told me he was part of the procedure. Patients holding the snake were less likely to fidget or throw up their hands at unfortunate times, such as when the computer was making microscopic adjustments, she said. After brief consideration, I shelved my masculinity in favor of not vaporizing parts of my anatomy that I might need later. She smiled at me like I was just adorable and passed me Snakey without further comment.
Thanks to the world's most expensive eyedrops, I couldn't feel the blade when the doctor sliced a tiny trap door in the first eye, but I could sure tell when he went to work. Surgeons use a pressurized ring to hold your eye still while they're cutting, and if the sensation of having your whole head manipulated by the eyeball isn't precisely painful, it's far from pleasant. As he opened the filmy door, I watched one of evolution's proudest achievements progressively break down until eventually I couldn't see at all.
Of course they had prepared me for this. In fact, the blindness only lasted about six seconds followed by a minute or so of extreme blurriness. But it is an odd experience to feel your eyelid wide open and know that your eye is pointed at a face two feet away and see only darkness. At that moment in the procedure, I bet every patient has essentially the same thought: "Well. I certainly hope THAT comes back."
Thankfully, it did. After a few moments of positioning, I was directed to look through the haze at a starburst of yellow light. The actual laser is invisible, but staring at a fixed point helps the computer focus. I'd also bet that giving patients a simple task to consider helps divert them from the James Bondian event that is about to transpire.
I'll try to relate the dreaded laser phase of the procedure for those of you who have never had the privilege of having your eyes cooked in your head. Imagine staring through an incredibly dirty windshield into a powerful flashlight while the passenger burns a handful of dog hair.
About the time the smell hit me, some primitive part of my brain screamed, "This is ridiculous. THEY ARE SHINING A LASER DIRECTLY INTO YOUR EYE. We've screwed up before, but wow..." My knuckles went white around Snakey's ribs, but I held still.
All told, it took about three hours to make my vision passable and now, a month later, it's well within the range of the average person who doesn't need glasses. Within three months, I should be as close to 20/20 as heredity will allow.
Lasik is far from a miracle: I was essentially bed-ridden for several days, one eye remains noticeably weaker than the other and my night vision is still touchy. But the procedure's ability to change a basic fact of my life — that I cannot safely travel farther than the kitchen without some type of optical technology on my head — has been stunning. I recommend it to anyone who's simply tired of worrying about their eyes, or just curious about how they might smell in the microwave.
Several masked, gloved and capped Lasik doctors leaned over me, seemingly fascinated by my impending sightlessness. Over 28 years' worth of hospital visits, I've noticed that the more concerned you are about a procedure or exam, the larger the crowd of people surrounding the patient seems to become. Right now, I was seeing a damned battalion of laser jockeys and a sizable detachment of corneal infantrymen, fixing bayonets as they marched inexorably toward my face. In reality, there were probably about two of them.
Until a month ago, I'd worn contact lenses for years. Early this year, my left eye decided this arrangement was no longer acceptable and started turning red and swelling whenever I so much as thought about putting a lens in it. In addition to granting me a striking resemblance to Bill the Cat from the old comic strip Bloom County, it itched like hell, which made me constantly irritable and distracted. Not that that distinguished me from most other reporters these days, but I was still eager to correct things.
My optometrist knew immediately what was wrong but had no advice other than to stop wearing the contacts and see what developed. What developed was a raw spot on the bridge of my nose that hadn't been there since junior high — the last time I'd worn glasses for weeks on end — and an aura that reportedly made me "just adorable like Harry Potter" (and, for a trying several months, just as dateable). After my eye showed little improvement, I puffed up my chest and called a Reno Lasik doctor who does business with my dad.
Which was how I found myself prostrate under what looked like the bombing sight from a B-52 with a microkeratone (pronounced: a freaking eye blade) poised a millimeter from my pupil and a purple stuffed snake clutched in my hands. I gallantly refused the snake at first, but the nurse told me he was part of the procedure. Patients holding the snake were less likely to fidget or throw up their hands at unfortunate times, such as when the computer was making microscopic adjustments, she said. After brief consideration, I shelved my masculinity in favor of not vaporizing parts of my anatomy that I might need later. She smiled at me like I was just adorable and passed me Snakey without further comment.
Thanks to the world's most expensive eyedrops, I couldn't feel the blade when the doctor sliced a tiny trap door in the first eye, but I could sure tell when he went to work. Surgeons use a pressurized ring to hold your eye still while they're cutting, and if the sensation of having your whole head manipulated by the eyeball isn't precisely painful, it's far from pleasant. As he opened the filmy door, I watched one of evolution's proudest achievements progressively break down until eventually I couldn't see at all.
Of course they had prepared me for this. In fact, the blindness only lasted about six seconds followed by a minute or so of extreme blurriness. But it is an odd experience to feel your eyelid wide open and know that your eye is pointed at a face two feet away and see only darkness. At that moment in the procedure, I bet every patient has essentially the same thought: "Well. I certainly hope THAT comes back."
Thankfully, it did. After a few moments of positioning, I was directed to look through the haze at a starburst of yellow light. The actual laser is invisible, but staring at a fixed point helps the computer focus. I'd also bet that giving patients a simple task to consider helps divert them from the James Bondian event that is about to transpire.
I'll try to relate the dreaded laser phase of the procedure for those of you who have never had the privilege of having your eyes cooked in your head. Imagine staring through an incredibly dirty windshield into a powerful flashlight while the passenger burns a handful of dog hair.
About the time the smell hit me, some primitive part of my brain screamed, "This is ridiculous. THEY ARE SHINING A LASER DIRECTLY INTO YOUR EYE. We've screwed up before, but wow..." My knuckles went white around Snakey's ribs, but I held still.
All told, it took about three hours to make my vision passable and now, a month later, it's well within the range of the average person who doesn't need glasses. Within three months, I should be as close to 20/20 as heredity will allow.
Lasik is far from a miracle: I was essentially bed-ridden for several days, one eye remains noticeably weaker than the other and my night vision is still touchy. But the procedure's ability to change a basic fact of my life — that I cannot safely travel farther than the kitchen without some type of optical technology on my head — has been stunning. I recommend it to anyone who's simply tired of worrying about their eyes, or just curious about how they might smell in the microwave.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The people's business
A lot of people are unclear about what it is that I do every day. They know, of course, that there are times when I hold officials' feet to the fire, speak with stars and charge headlong into incredibly dangerous situations with no regard for my own safety or indeed anything but The Story.
And that's true. Part of the reason I got into this gig is that I get to do the whole charging thing and nobody shoots at me. But as any cop, firefighter or combat veteran will tell you, it's all about hurry up and wait, and that goes double for those of us a few lines back. I often share with you all the hurry up, which admittedly involves some gun play, loose women and dead bodies.
So I give you a taste of Carson City's Dave Morgan. He's a man whom I respect deeply; a guy who has sold his soul to journalism. If you have even an ounce of understanding of what it is to grasp and convey the people's business, he'll stun you to silence and make you ashamed of whatever pursuit you've made of your life. Even if you're a self-promoting (albeit handsome) emo jerk like me.
And still you may watch this and ask yourself: Really? Is this what it is to cover public affairs? And you'd be right. The job is 85 percent boring. Folks go to meetings; say things and do things that only occasionally matter. And yet there are those rare times when it means everything. The time comes and context is all and if you don't get what has happened over the past nine months you don't get what is happening now.
Things spontaneously combust and you can't understand the mechanism because combustion has not been your sole pursuit over the past several months. But it has been for someone, and Dave Morgan -- not Keith Olbermann, Sean Hannity or me -- is that person. Watch now the master at work and weep at his sacrifice because, shockingly, he does not appear on camera at any point.
Happily, I do. If you're checking, look stage left of the large gentleman in a white sweater and you may spot me taking notes in a brown sweatshirt. The difference between Morgan and me is that his story is done as you watch this and mine struggles on until my Friday deadline. That, and I occasionally meander into the realm of petite brunettes. Purely by accident.
And that's true. Part of the reason I got into this gig is that I get to do the whole charging thing and nobody shoots at me. But as any cop, firefighter or combat veteran will tell you, it's all about hurry up and wait, and that goes double for those of us a few lines back. I often share with you all the hurry up, which admittedly involves some gun play, loose women and dead bodies.
So I give you a taste of Carson City's Dave Morgan. He's a man whom I respect deeply; a guy who has sold his soul to journalism. If you have even an ounce of understanding of what it is to grasp and convey the people's business, he'll stun you to silence and make you ashamed of whatever pursuit you've made of your life. Even if you're a self-promoting (albeit handsome) emo jerk like me.
And still you may watch this and ask yourself: Really? Is this what it is to cover public affairs? And you'd be right. The job is 85 percent boring. Folks go to meetings; say things and do things that only occasionally matter. And yet there are those rare times when it means everything. The time comes and context is all and if you don't get what has happened over the past nine months you don't get what is happening now.
Things spontaneously combust and you can't understand the mechanism because combustion has not been your sole pursuit over the past several months. But it has been for someone, and Dave Morgan -- not Keith Olbermann, Sean Hannity or me -- is that person. Watch now the master at work and weep at his sacrifice because, shockingly, he does not appear on camera at any point.
Happily, I do. If you're checking, look stage left of the large gentleman in a white sweater and you may spot me taking notes in a brown sweatshirt. The difference between Morgan and me is that his story is done as you watch this and mine struggles on until my Friday deadline. That, and I occasionally meander into the realm of petite brunettes. Purely by accident.
Friday, October 3, 2008
City’s newest coffee shop stops Carson Street traffic
(Reno Gazette-Journal)
Related photo gallery@Rgj.com
By Matt Farley
mfarley@carsontimes.com
Weekday morning slowdowns are nothing new along South Carson Street, but the staff of Java Girls brought an entirely different meaning to the term "stopping traffic" at the coffee shop's grand opening last week.
Shortly after 10 a.m., Bernadette Kunter and Breanna Querin stood on the sidewalk near the shop, working to call attention to the new business. Kunter was dressed in a revealing devil costume and Querin wore a black bustier and matching shorts.
"I guess people are just interested in taboo things," said Querin, a 19-year-old Gardnerville resident. "Some people might not like us, but they're still talking about it."
Brake lights flared and several male motorists courted whiplash as the women danced, waved signs and pointed to the former Espresso To Go. Down the block, two men in a silver Ford Mustang made an abrupt lane change and swung into the lot.
"We had a mother and daughter from out of town drive through this morning," said Gardnerville resident Stephanie Mesler, mixing a latte while dressed as the world's earthliest angel. "They saw the outfits and were like, 'Well, we're definitely in Nevada.' But they were really cool with it."
The enthusiastic reception went exactly as planned, owner Don Emborsky said. He and his wife, Stephanie Streenan, opened the only Nevada outpost of the Washington-based coffee chain after considering a variety of businesses, he said. The couple makes no apologies for the controversial concept behind Java Girls: That coffee is best when served by attractive, friendly young women in swimwear and lingerie.
"It's a unique business model," he said. "The guy who owns it (Steve McDaniel) has already proven it in Seattle. He was getting put out of business by Starbucks, then he reopened with this idea. Now he's running right with them."
As part of the application process, the six barista-models who work at the shop had to meet with Streenan while wearing bikinis before signing on.
Hiring criteria included a good attitude and "cute, girl-next-door" appearance, Streenan said. It did not, however, focus heavily on previous food service experience, meaning the women had to take a crash course in coffeemaking before the shop could open. After training, the owners loaded their final picks into a limousine and drove them to Carson City's adult lingerie store Naughty or Nice to select their uniforms.
With winter looming a few months away, some workers intially worried about wearing bedroom attire to work, Streenan said. But the shop's powerful heater coupled with multiple espresso machines running in close quarters should prove equal to any cold snap, she said.
"In the winter, we get long-sleeved Santa jackets, " Kunter said. "I think it'll be fine."
In spite of some rumblings of disapproval, locals have greeted Java Girls with open arms, Emborsky said, noting that the Chamber of Commerce and other groups have endorsed the shop. More than 70 cars had passed through in the first hours of operation Thursday, many simply investigating the cluster of scantily clad women.
"Uh, we're here because it just seemed like a nice day to get coffee," joked Danny Esquivel, a passenger in the silver Mustang. "Anywhere but Starbucks, right?"
He jerked a thumb at the driver, Ricardo Contreras.
"Actually, I'm lying," Esquivel said. "This guy doesn't even drink coffee. I really think this place will work out."
Related photo gallery@Rgj.com
By Matt Farley
mfarley@carsontimes.com
Weekday morning slowdowns are nothing new along South Carson Street, but the staff of Java Girls brought an entirely different meaning to the term "stopping traffic" at the coffee shop's grand opening last week.
Shortly after 10 a.m., Bernadette Kunter and Breanna Querin stood on the sidewalk near the shop, working to call attention to the new business. Kunter was dressed in a revealing devil costume and Querin wore a black bustier and matching shorts.
"I guess people are just interested in taboo things," said Querin, a 19-year-old Gardnerville resident. "Some people might not like us, but they're still talking about it."
Brake lights flared and several male motorists courted whiplash as the women danced, waved signs and pointed to the former Espresso To Go. Down the block, two men in a silver Ford Mustang made an abrupt lane change and swung into the lot.
"We had a mother and daughter from out of town drive through this morning," said Gardnerville resident Stephanie Mesler, mixing a latte while dressed as the world's earthliest angel. "They saw the outfits and were like, 'Well, we're definitely in Nevada.' But they were really cool with it."
The enthusiastic reception went exactly as planned, owner Don Emborsky said. He and his wife, Stephanie Streenan, opened the only Nevada outpost of the Washington-based coffee chain after considering a variety of businesses, he said. The couple makes no apologies for the controversial concept behind Java Girls: That coffee is best when served by attractive, friendly young women in swimwear and lingerie.
"It's a unique business model," he said. "The guy who owns it (Steve McDaniel) has already proven it in Seattle. He was getting put out of business by Starbucks, then he reopened with this idea. Now he's running right with them."
As part of the application process, the six barista-models who work at the shop had to meet with Streenan while wearing bikinis before signing on.
Hiring criteria included a good attitude and "cute, girl-next-door" appearance, Streenan said. It did not, however, focus heavily on previous food service experience, meaning the women had to take a crash course in coffeemaking before the shop could open. After training, the owners loaded their final picks into a limousine and drove them to Carson City's adult lingerie store Naughty or Nice to select their uniforms.
With winter looming a few months away, some workers intially worried about wearing bedroom attire to work, Streenan said. But the shop's powerful heater coupled with multiple espresso machines running in close quarters should prove equal to any cold snap, she said.
"In the winter, we get long-sleeved Santa jackets, " Kunter said. "I think it'll be fine."
In spite of some rumblings of disapproval, locals have greeted Java Girls with open arms, Emborsky said, noting that the Chamber of Commerce and other groups have endorsed the shop. More than 70 cars had passed through in the first hours of operation Thursday, many simply investigating the cluster of scantily clad women.
"Uh, we're here because it just seemed like a nice day to get coffee," joked Danny Esquivel, a passenger in the silver Mustang. "Anywhere but Starbucks, right?"
He jerked a thumb at the driver, Ricardo Contreras.
"Actually, I'm lying," Esquivel said. "This guy doesn't even drink coffee. I really think this place will work out."
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sex and coffee
Last week I spoke to the exceedingly well-adjusted ladies of the new semi-nude coffee house Java Girls. Really. It's apparently a hit in the Pacific Northwest. Don't look at me; all I know is my boss was like, "Does anyone feel like investigating this whole mocha and boobies situation out on South Carson Street?" and I was like, "I GOT THIS!!!" and went Code 3 all the way there like the governor had been spotted snorting a line in the middle of Telegraph Square. Not that he would ever do such a thing.
So Fark picked the story up (possibly because I submitted it myself) and it became sort of "a thing" around town. If you're interested in ironically bisexual 19-year-olds in bustiers (and who among us is not), you may want to click on the photo gallery in the upper right of the story. If you find that the RGJ has moved the link again, let me know and I'll direct you to the proper spot.
So Fark picked the story up (possibly because I submitted it myself) and it became sort of "a thing" around town. If you're interested in ironically bisexual 19-year-olds in bustiers (and who among us is not), you may want to click on the photo gallery in the upper right of the story. If you find that the RGJ has moved the link again, let me know and I'll direct you to the proper spot.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Just like the Civil War, but with Russians
New Forced Perspective this week! Please forgive the headline they slapped on it. The had this huge space they had to fill with words so they kept writing and writing until it makes no sense. The actual article is as brilliant as ever, though.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Eff you for smoking
If you're a fan of weather with personality, Northern Nevada has been your kind of place this week.
You may know that much of the state of California is on fire even as we speak, including an impressive swath of Watsonville within yards of my old office. In spite of my shock and concern that my old photographer was going to get himself killed or arrested dashing through blazing neighborhoods in search of a shot, I've been walking around just this side of verdant with envy over the adventures I imagine my old buddies must be having this summer. If you're looking for someone to confirm that old-school print journalism is on the way out, I'll be the first guy in line. Even so, anyone still in the business will tell you that there are times when you find yourself backstage at a $100-per-seat concert, calling a politician on his nonsense or standing on the front lines of an historic public safety operation while all hell is breaking loose and you say to yourself, "Damn, I'm actually getting paid for this."
I've done plenty of all of that and look forward to doing more. But this time, I'm nowhere near any of the 800-plus California fires. Nope, Matt Farley is riding the pine (or whatever appalling Third World composite my desk is actually made from) here in beautiful downtown Carson City, where the action is minimal but the air will kill your ass.
See, by some trick of the atmosphere I don't fully understand but feel comfortable blaming on George Bush, the airborne product of several hundred of those fires has collected over the top third of Nevada.
If you aren't nearby, you won't believe me, but I'll try to explain what I'm seeing out my window right now. Brown. The air is literally brown. I don't mean stylish hipster smog like they have in Los Angeles, I mean the air is visibly brown and legally toxic. I can't see more than three blocks and I feel it in my chest when I try to walk that far.
Technically, we're in stage 2 of the 4-stage air pollution spectrum, which means old folks and anyone who attempts strenuous exercise outdoors are at risk of long-term cardiovascular problems. The state has recommended that residents stay inside and use filtration systems such as air conditioners to protect themselves, which is totally helpful to the 30 percent of taxpayers who don't have air conditioning, a figure which includes my 60-year-old parents. Awesome.
So as I rot in this poisonous suckscape of respiratory misery, running on a treadmill because I'm afraid to take my newborn running habit outdoors, I wonder: What the hell is going on? I'm not a superstitious guy, but in my life as well as in the world at large, these are strange days. From atmospherics to economics to politics to social dynamics, too many things that were never supposed to happen, or were only supposed to happen in the distant science fiction future, are happening now and demand attention. I worry constantly about our ability to juggle them all.
One assumes that young people felt this way during the Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, World War II and the '60s. One assumes that to even consider the possibility that one's own lifetime is special, let alone the one in which civilization will finally crumble is pure arrogance. Things will be fine and we'll all get rich and laugh about this over expensive Scotches and fat retirement checks in 30 years.
Still, any time things wanted to ease back toward the baseline would be just fine with me.
You may know that much of the state of California is on fire even as we speak, including an impressive swath of Watsonville within yards of my old office. In spite of my shock and concern that my old photographer was going to get himself killed or arrested dashing through blazing neighborhoods in search of a shot, I've been walking around just this side of verdant with envy over the adventures I imagine my old buddies must be having this summer. If you're looking for someone to confirm that old-school print journalism is on the way out, I'll be the first guy in line. Even so, anyone still in the business will tell you that there are times when you find yourself backstage at a $100-per-seat concert, calling a politician on his nonsense or standing on the front lines of an historic public safety operation while all hell is breaking loose and you say to yourself, "Damn, I'm actually getting paid for this."
I've done plenty of all of that and look forward to doing more. But this time, I'm nowhere near any of the 800-plus California fires. Nope, Matt Farley is riding the pine (or whatever appalling Third World composite my desk is actually made from) here in beautiful downtown Carson City, where the action is minimal but the air will kill your ass.
See, by some trick of the atmosphere I don't fully understand but feel comfortable blaming on George Bush, the airborne product of several hundred of those fires has collected over the top third of Nevada.
If you aren't nearby, you won't believe me, but I'll try to explain what I'm seeing out my window right now. Brown. The air is literally brown. I don't mean stylish hipster smog like they have in Los Angeles, I mean the air is visibly brown and legally toxic. I can't see more than three blocks and I feel it in my chest when I try to walk that far.
Technically, we're in stage 2 of the 4-stage air pollution spectrum, which means old folks and anyone who attempts strenuous exercise outdoors are at risk of long-term cardiovascular problems. The state has recommended that residents stay inside and use filtration systems such as air conditioners to protect themselves, which is totally helpful to the 30 percent of taxpayers who don't have air conditioning, a figure which includes my 60-year-old parents. Awesome.
So as I rot in this poisonous suckscape of respiratory misery, running on a treadmill because I'm afraid to take my newborn running habit outdoors, I wonder: What the hell is going on? I'm not a superstitious guy, but in my life as well as in the world at large, these are strange days. From atmospherics to economics to politics to social dynamics, too many things that were never supposed to happen, or were only supposed to happen in the distant science fiction future, are happening now and demand attention. I worry constantly about our ability to juggle them all.
One assumes that young people felt this way during the Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, World War II and the '60s. One assumes that to even consider the possibility that one's own lifetime is special, let alone the one in which civilization will finally crumble is pure arrogance. Things will be fine and we'll all get rich and laugh about this over expensive Scotches and fat retirement checks in 30 years.
Still, any time things wanted to ease back toward the baseline would be just fine with me.
Panic at the Disco
I forgot to post my review of the Panic at the Disco show a few weeks back, so here it is. Not really my cup of tea, but you can't argue that these guys aren't talented. Also, they went platinum before most of them could legally drink, so that's a nice touch for those of us staring down the barrel of 30 with a four-digit bank account. Four low digits.
Also, Motion City Soundtrack absolutely killed. I love them but had heard they sucked live, so it was a pleasant surprise to say the least.
Also, Motion City Soundtrack absolutely killed. I love them but had heard they sucked live, so it was a pleasant surprise to say the least.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Alkaline Trio vs. wild bears
I covered the release of five black bear cubs back into the Carson Range this week, the culmination of a project we've been following for more than a year. It was pretty intense, to say the least. My photographer, Patrick, got some spectacular video of the release, which can be seen along with my story here . You can see me in some of the shots and Carl, the biologist who led the adventure, is talking to me in the narration -- we just cut my audio in editing.
I've done about four stories on Carl and his new wife (one of the few people in the Carson City area who might be cuter than me), so I guess that makes us all sort of work friends. Which is good, because, as you'll see in the clip, Carl is not a guy you want to get crosswise with.
Also, I did a phoner with Matt from the Alkaline Trio in advance of their show next week. He was a really cool guy, one of the easiest rock star interviews I've ever done. Check it out here.
I've done about four stories on Carl and his new wife (one of the few people in the Carson City area who might be cuter than me), so I guess that makes us all sort of work friends. Which is good, because, as you'll see in the clip, Carl is not a guy you want to get crosswise with.
Also, I did a phoner with Matt from the Alkaline Trio in advance of their show next week. He was a really cool guy, one of the easiest rock star interviews I've ever done. Check it out here.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
A quick note
I just noticed that several of the links to my recent RGJ stuff (newest FP, the two pieces on The Used) have been broken for a few weeks. They're fixed now, if anyone cares to check them out.
The Used and odd combinations
So I went to see The Used on Saturday and it was a truly strange affair. The bands could not have been more different from one another. The kids just didn't know what to think when Street Drum Corps (sort of a muscle-powered KMFDM) was followed by Army of Me, which can most kindly be described as a middle-aged Jonas Brothers. That was before Straylight Run started in with the Elton John pianos and gospel lyrics. Leading into The Used, whose singer got famous kissing the dude from My Chemical Romance and puking onstage, that was the one that really made me wonder if I was hallucinating.
The thing is, all of the bands were great in their own ways. All things considered, it was a really great night and it leads one to wonder what The Used's next album might be like since, as their bassist Jeph told me last week, people are spongy and this band has proven to be especially so. See my review of the show here .
Friday, May 2, 2008
The Used at Lawlor Events Center
I talked to Jeph from The Used last week about their upcoming show, James Brown and what he calls "gross-pop." I was tempted to grovel like a fanboy because I really like the band, so I kind of overcompensated and hardballed him more than was probably necessary. Whatever. The mattress stuffed with hundred-dollar bills and crowded with Suicide Girls he sleeps on will probably get him through any emotional distress I may have caused.
Anyway, I apparently wasn't rude enough not to make the guest list, so I'll see you kids there. Check out the interview here and look for the review on Sunday.
Anyway, I apparently wasn't rude enough not to make the guest list, so I'll see you kids there. Check out the interview here and look for the review on Sunday.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
New Forced Perspective and "The Paper"
My boss was on vacation last week, and you know what that means: New Forced Perspective!
But the real issue of the day, aside from the fact that Hillary Clinton is apparently about to make the entire Democratic party look like Florida circa November 2000 (Floridation?), is "The Paper."What is one to make of a reality show about a newspaper these days? On MTV, no less?
I stopped watching MTV a few years back after I realized that they run at least three distinct cable stations and none of them actually play music, but this show lured me back. I was prepared to be scandalized, but even I have to admit that it's one of the best "reality" shows since the early "Real Worlds."
The show is just what it sounds like: a quasi-documentary that follows a group of high school journalism students and their teacher. Of course there's manufactured drama and heavy-handed characterization of kids who probably aren't actually walking stereotypes in real life. And you'd better believe a team of professional gag writers is feeding the cast lines just as fast as they can write them. But so what? If you like your documentary raw, MTV probably shouldn't be your first stop anyway.
What stands out is that, for the first time, a reality show is bringing people I actually recognize to the dance. With a few exceptions, the kids actually seem like j-students. They bicker about punctuation and leading. They bitch constantly and plot mutiny against their editor. Surprisingly for a mainstream show, they apparently play beer pong while they should be working. And, most genuinely, they talk a big game in public, briefly plunge into hysterical insecurity when no one's looking, and then pull it all together just in time for deadline.
All real, solid stuff. Even when the kids are clearly using canned material, they don't look or act like the models that miraculously seem to appear on every other "reality" show -- they seem like kids who spend a lot of time indoors, struggling with telephones and computers and thinking of ways to be clever. Heck, the team's outgoing editor-in-chief, a pushy brunette who makes a cameo in the pilot episode, could be working at the RGJ as we speak. It's that realistic.
Plus, I just can't hate a show about journalism that rolls out Queen's "Under Pressure" within the first 10 minutes of the series. If MTV makes newspapers cool again, I may need to take back some of those things I said after they canceled "Sifl and Oly."
But the real issue of the day, aside from the fact that Hillary Clinton is apparently about to make the entire Democratic party look like Florida circa November 2000 (Floridation?), is "The Paper."What is one to make of a reality show about a newspaper these days? On MTV, no less?
I stopped watching MTV a few years back after I realized that they run at least three distinct cable stations and none of them actually play music, but this show lured me back. I was prepared to be scandalized, but even I have to admit that it's one of the best "reality" shows since the early "Real Worlds."
The show is just what it sounds like: a quasi-documentary that follows a group of high school journalism students and their teacher. Of course there's manufactured drama and heavy-handed characterization of kids who probably aren't actually walking stereotypes in real life. And you'd better believe a team of professional gag writers is feeding the cast lines just as fast as they can write them. But so what? If you like your documentary raw, MTV probably shouldn't be your first stop anyway.
What stands out is that, for the first time, a reality show is bringing people I actually recognize to the dance. With a few exceptions, the kids actually seem like j-students. They bicker about punctuation and leading. They bitch constantly and plot mutiny against their editor. Surprisingly for a mainstream show, they apparently play beer pong while they should be working. And, most genuinely, they talk a big game in public, briefly plunge into hysterical insecurity when no one's looking, and then pull it all together just in time for deadline.
All real, solid stuff. Even when the kids are clearly using canned material, they don't look or act like the models that miraculously seem to appear on every other "reality" show -- they seem like kids who spend a lot of time indoors, struggling with telephones and computers and thinking of ways to be clever. Heck, the team's outgoing editor-in-chief, a pushy brunette who makes a cameo in the pilot episode, could be working at the RGJ as we speak. It's that realistic.
Plus, I just can't hate a show about journalism that rolls out Queen's "Under Pressure" within the first 10 minutes of the series. If MTV makes newspapers cool again, I may need to take back some of those things I said after they canceled "Sifl and Oly."
Friday, March 14, 2008
Voters, like prostitutes, can be fickle bedfellows
(From the Reno Gazette-Journal)
The instant it was discovered that New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer had, ahem, retained the services of prostitutes, Americans cried out as one for the charlatan to be clapped in irons and paraded through the news cycle like a prisoner of the morality wars. Just like we always do.
Don't get me wrong. It warms the cockles of a young reporter's heart to see that even in these divided times, folks can still reach across the aisle to join in the gang beating of an adulterous hypocrite. The fact that all three presidential contenders (and presumably Ron Paul, if anyone were still asking him) suddenly agree on an issue is nothing short of remarkable. Even if that agreement comes in the form of a shaky "Uh, if in fact bad things were done, we would then consider those things to be bad."
But even as Spitzer and his preternaturally loyal wife made the mandatory rounds, it's hard not to feel like we've been here before. Does the name Bill Clinton ring a bell for anyone? How about David Vitter or Arnold Schwarzenegger? How about Gary Condit or Gavin Newsom? Closer to home, what about Jim Gibbons and Katie Rees?
When you think about it, it seems like a whole lot of politicians run into trouble keeping their carnal desires within socially acceptable bounds. (If you just said, "Hey, wait a second! Katie Rees isn't a politician, she's the Nevada beauty queen who got in trouble for those naked pictures!" then you clearly identify with their struggles.) And I say it's about time to ask ourselves, and them, why that might be.
I've got a hypothesis: Because most politicians are ambitious and morally flexible. The mere process of running for public office attracts people who have good social skills, an amorphous belief system and an overriding desire to pursue things they want, even at great personal cost. Not coincidentally, those are also qualities one would assume useful in cheating on one's spouse.
But we know all that. When the news came out about Spitzer, did anyone really get a case of the vapors and faint dead away like a blushing Southern belle whose faith in the goodness of man had been shattered? My guess is no. It was just, "Oh, man, another one?" and a passing gratitude that no congressional pages were involved.
But most media coverage, and in fact most people's outward reaction, did not reflect that attitude. On cable and the newfangled series of tubes Alaska Sen. Ted Stevens likes to call the Internet, it was all moral outrage and impeachment threats.
Knowing as we do that many of the pols and commentators torching Spitzer probably have a few documents of their own they'd rather the IRS didn't see, it's hard to believe that all the sound and fury is the real deal.
Heck, if your favorite politician, be it Kennedy or McCain, hasn't yet been popped for stepping out on a spouse, you start to nervously wonder what else they might be doing with all that excess cash and raw ambition.
And that's what it really comes down to: These folks can generally do whatever they want, and that fact makes the common man crazy. If you or I got caught hiring hookers or taking job-related bribes, we'd be looking at some life-altering problems; but when a senator does it, they get to run for president. That's the sort of dichotomy that starts revolutions.
So, lacking a guillotine, we instead wait for a breach in an official's public relations armor and then hit him there with years' worth of pent-up jealousy. There were widespread reports of high-fiving and cheering on Wall Street when Spitzer took the fall, and you can bet there will be more of the same around Nevada if Gov. Gibbons' marriage fails.
Displays like that certainly aren't kind, but I don't think they're really about meanness, either. They're about a sense of relief that no one gets to be king forever.
The instant it was discovered that New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer had, ahem, retained the services of prostitutes, Americans cried out as one for the charlatan to be clapped in irons and paraded through the news cycle like a prisoner of the morality wars. Just like we always do.
Don't get me wrong. It warms the cockles of a young reporter's heart to see that even in these divided times, folks can still reach across the aisle to join in the gang beating of an adulterous hypocrite. The fact that all three presidential contenders (and presumably Ron Paul, if anyone were still asking him) suddenly agree on an issue is nothing short of remarkable. Even if that agreement comes in the form of a shaky "Uh, if in fact bad things were done, we would then consider those things to be bad."
But even as Spitzer and his preternaturally loyal wife made the mandatory rounds, it's hard not to feel like we've been here before. Does the name Bill Clinton ring a bell for anyone? How about David Vitter or Arnold Schwarzenegger? How about Gary Condit or Gavin Newsom? Closer to home, what about Jim Gibbons and Katie Rees?
When you think about it, it seems like a whole lot of politicians run into trouble keeping their carnal desires within socially acceptable bounds. (If you just said, "Hey, wait a second! Katie Rees isn't a politician, she's the Nevada beauty queen who got in trouble for those naked pictures!" then you clearly identify with their struggles.) And I say it's about time to ask ourselves, and them, why that might be.
I've got a hypothesis: Because most politicians are ambitious and morally flexible. The mere process of running for public office attracts people who have good social skills, an amorphous belief system and an overriding desire to pursue things they want, even at great personal cost. Not coincidentally, those are also qualities one would assume useful in cheating on one's spouse.
But we know all that. When the news came out about Spitzer, did anyone really get a case of the vapors and faint dead away like a blushing Southern belle whose faith in the goodness of man had been shattered? My guess is no. It was just, "Oh, man, another one?" and a passing gratitude that no congressional pages were involved.
But most media coverage, and in fact most people's outward reaction, did not reflect that attitude. On cable and the newfangled series of tubes Alaska Sen. Ted Stevens likes to call the Internet, it was all moral outrage and impeachment threats.
Knowing as we do that many of the pols and commentators torching Spitzer probably have a few documents of their own they'd rather the IRS didn't see, it's hard to believe that all the sound and fury is the real deal.
Heck, if your favorite politician, be it Kennedy or McCain, hasn't yet been popped for stepping out on a spouse, you start to nervously wonder what else they might be doing with all that excess cash and raw ambition.
And that's what it really comes down to: These folks can generally do whatever they want, and that fact makes the common man crazy. If you or I got caught hiring hookers or taking job-related bribes, we'd be looking at some life-altering problems; but when a senator does it, they get to run for president. That's the sort of dichotomy that starts revolutions.
So, lacking a guillotine, we instead wait for a breach in an official's public relations armor and then hit him there with years' worth of pent-up jealousy. There were widespread reports of high-fiving and cheering on Wall Street when Spitzer took the fall, and you can bet there will be more of the same around Nevada if Gov. Gibbons' marriage fails.
Displays like that certainly aren't kind, but I don't think they're really about meanness, either. They're about a sense of relief that no one gets to be king forever.
Monday, January 28, 2008
The Donnas at Crystal Bay Club
We went to see The Donnas in Crystal Bay on Saturday, and it was one of the most fun shows I've been to in years. Minus the part where I missed my turn on the way up and wound up doing laps around Lake Tahoe for an hour, of course. For all of you who rag me about always showing up to concerts early, this is why. See the review here.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Back in business
Forced Perspective made at least a temporary return Friday in the pages of the Carson Times. My boss asked me to pinch hit after one of our usual columnists called in lazy and, oddly enough, readers immediately started e-mailing to ask who the new guy was and if he'd be sticking around. I'd like to think it will be a permanent arrangement, but I'm not holding my breath. CT is still run by the RGJ, the outfit that forcibly retired my dad, Cory Farley, after he was named Reno's most popular media personality 26 out of the past 27 years. Based on their initial response to my piece, management doesn't find either of us particularly amusing.
Speaking of my dad, he's recently become the hottest commodity in Reno since Shannyn Sossamon left town. He showed up on the nightly news Thursday to announce that his column will now be running in the alt weekly Reno News and Review and he'll be doing commentary on KOLO a couple times a week. He's also guesting on a radio talk show Monday morning. I bet somebody over at the ol' RGJ is wishing they'd thought to put a non-compete clause into his severance package right about now...
Speaking of my dad, he's recently become the hottest commodity in Reno since Shannyn Sossamon left town. He showed up on the nightly news Thursday to announce that his column will now be running in the alt weekly Reno News and Review and he'll be doing commentary on KOLO a couple times a week. He's also guesting on a radio talk show Monday morning. I bet somebody over at the ol' RGJ is wishing they'd thought to put a non-compete clause into his severance package right about now...
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