Death, Drones, and Shake Down Artists

 #blacklivesmatter 

It's been a busy few days along the dirty, sacred river. Up stream in Losantiville, the city is bracing for the aftershock of a shooting. A University of Cincinnati rent-a-cop shoots 43 year old Samuel Dubose. According to the reports, Dubose was pulled over and rather than produce a driver's license, he produced a liquor bottle. Students and family held a peaceful campus rally. UC cops handed the investigation over to the city -- but even the county prosecutor doesn't think it looks good for the rent-a-cop.

Anyone who knows anything about the long history of Porkopolis and police knows there is no love lost between those who wear a badge and pretty much anyone west of 5 Mile Road. And anyone who knows anything about the nature of power and the University of Cincinnati's land grab in the shriveled corporate heart of that city knows that the university, like many universities of equal size and reach, behaves like a city-state unto itself.

That Dubose is dead and not awaiting trial for drunk driving is not only a tragedy that should have been avoided; it one more testament to the hubris of an out-of-control power and greed machine that is the modern university.

[UPDATE, 10:55am -- I hear that the campus is closing at 11am today. Someone is worried about something happening.]

Drones

 Meanwhile, back here in River City and in parts nearby, a Bullitt County man was arrested for shooting down a drone hovering over his backyard. The drone didn't belong to to any governmental agency -- just a couple of techie interlopers who undoubtedly thought they were being funny, or who were being pervy. In either case, William Merideth, while on the hook for firing a weapon in town limits and firing in the air on a day other than Christmas and Independence Day, is at least a good shot.

Shakedown Artists

Near the top of the food chain in power and greed machines -- otherwise known as the modern university system -- is the university president. If you pay attention  to local news and views, you may be aware that poor ol', Dr. James Ramsey -- the University of Louisville President -- is so destitute that a local contractor and good ol' boy -- who's frequently getting all kinds of contracts and favors from UofL -- has offered to cover some of Jimmy nut. 

Meanwhile, in news and views up 3rd Street and in Versailles, Kentucky, the KCTCS regularly publishes the budgeted salaries of certain important people, including system president Dr. Jay Box. While adjuncts -- who teach a majority of the courses in the KCTCS system and therefore create most of the wealth and value of that institution -- draw poverty wages, Jay Box -- who generates nothing, creates nothing, and contributes less than nothing -- earns $345,000 a year.

That doesn't include other perks and benefits, of course.

While I object on moral and ethical grounds to either Jimmy or Jay being paid what they are for the very little they actually do, I have to commend them both on putting on some pretty good scams.

Operation 200

I'm trying to get my Facebook Page up to 200 likes. As an incentive, I've promised to record a short show somewhere in the city. This show will be posted here. I promise it'll be worth the freight.

Superstition and Tradition

Pictured left is my second round of drinks as a paid freelance journalist in Louisville.

Nothing fancy. Just my usual round of Miller Lite and Maker's Mark. This combination has been my bar drink of choice for longer than my second marriage lasted. My older brother, whose tastes are far more refined but who can drink with the best of them when the mood strikes him, is always a little sickened by my choice of combinations.

I was feeling a little squirrelly last night after a days of spending my days in the basement, sitting at the desk, working. I love the solitude, love the pace of the work I do -- gig based and sporadic as it feels at the moment -- but sometimes I need to get out. As Amanda understands and is extraordinarily patient about, it's not even about being social. Unless I'm meeting friends, I don't even socialize all that much.

The best way I know how to explain it is that sometimes I just need to swim around in a reasonable crowd of normal people who are not me, my books, my stringed instruments, the dog, or the cat. And sometimes I need a good bar with an uncomplicated air to find the ground. I need a place where I can be quiet and still feel like I've socialized.


I've established myself in a neighborhood watering hole that meets all the requirements set forth my pre-established Rules For Not At Home Drinking*.  And although I don't see the inside of a bar as much these days thanks to "the gig life" and the general financial burden that is summer (Thanks engrained academic schedule!), I felt it was important to go and have a  round or three out of the first check I earned as freelance journalist here in River City.

This was as much about wanting to see the inside of a familiar bar as it was superstition. In my last gig as a freelance muckraker -- with the The Prairie-Advocate out of Lanark, Illinois -- the first thing I did when I got paid was walk up to the local watering hole (there were two at the time and I was strongly discouraged by my  now ex-wife from walking in to one...  she called it, not incorrectly, "the redneck meat market") and have a beer and a shot. Bourbon is hard to find that far north, so I made do with a shot of Jack** and stuck to beer after that.

Drinking to inaugurate a new gig is something I see as crucial to the success of that gig. I did the same with first checks from teaching gigs in my 30's and still do in my 40's. I did the same from checks from day labor and factory/warehouse gigs in my 20's.  I will admit to a certain superstitious bent, but that's only because once money rolls in on the regular or semi-regular, it is immediately gobbled up in that bottomless pit called Bills and Other Unsavory Obligations.***

I had more reason to celebrate this gig check, though. When Amanda and I were first talking about me moving to River City and setting down some roots, I wasn't planning on going back to teaching. My Plan was to try and wow some of the local media with my portfolio of news writing. My Plan was that maybe I'd wiggle my way into some freelance work, and start building a fresh portfolio upon which I could build a livelihood out of writing. I don't really consider myself hampered by the fact that I don't have a degree in journalism (I did minor in it once upon a time). But I did find, on first pass, that not having a journalism degree in a medium-sized market as problematic as not having an MFA when you're applying for creative grants.

Sometimes editors, publishers take the absence of a specific degree personally. So my foray into the Louisville journalism scene didn't pan out. Initially.

But, as I am often reminded, everything is about timing.

Talking with Amanda about moving here and writing for LEO was the beginning of  this new and happier chapter in my life. In case you didn't know this about me, in addition to being somewhat superstitious, I'm also a touch sentimental about certain important things. Although I know that this gig is only prelude to something else and life moves forward, it reminds that 1) I really do like writing about news and think good, researched journalism matters, and 2) the Universe is sometimes very kind to me... and even looks out for me from time to time.

So, Sláinte ^ , Dear Friends and Readers.

________________________________________________________________
* Rules For Not At Home Drinking, codified and approved 2004, Cincinnati, OH. 1) Do not drink more than stumbling distance or not more than a 30 minute bus ride (no transfers) from home without having a ride. 2) Do not drink more than 5 shots of bourbon in a two hour period, regardless of how good or how empty the mood. 3.) Hydrate regularly. 4.) Eat properly 5.) Be safe.
** Any drinking rules I have get altered when Jack Daniels gets involved. Say what you will, but different liquors hit me differently... and the last time I went on a Jack induced bender I ended up getting hit... and hitting other people. Something in that Tennessee swill raises the temperature of my blood to an unpleasant degree. I take this as proof that I am, at least physiologically, in the right state now.
*Or, THE DEVIL INCARNATE
^ Gaelic for 'Good Health' or 'Last one to drink is a Protestant Tory.'

Solidarity Update

 "There's clearly something wrong with him." - Shawna L. Anderson*, JCTC Office of Institutional Research

Honestly there hasn't been much to report. I'm waiting on the rest of a response from my third Open Records Request before I hit them with another one.

There was one interesting tidbit of information in the last go round, though. As part of my last ORR to the Office of Legal services, I requested " a detailed record, minus any personal identifying information.. except for the campus where the alleged violation occurred... of any and all alleged and actual FERPA violations in the whole KCTCS system over the past 7 years, including the official resolution."

You might recall, Dear Friends and Faithful Readers, that I was terminated from JCTCS and banned from all KCTCS campuses in the state of Kentucky. The flimsy excuse they used was a supposed FERPA violation on social media. You might also recall that as the result of my first Open Records Request, I learned that certain administrative lap dogs took to stalking my online life in January 2015 after  The Cone Man Saga. One of them is named in the above quote, taken from some of the pages off the ORR's that I'm collecting in an attempt to get the true events unearthed and the roaches killing the clockworks of higher education exposed to the light.

Since I was terminated (and banned) on the pretext of a FERPA violation, I thought there was some record kept of such occurrences, particularly since an institution of higher yearning ought to be interested in knowing whether they need to change their orientation policy in reaction to some egregious trend of underpaid instructors bandying about the names and grades of students and bad-mouthing administrators all over social media.

However, this is the response I received:

"A response to this request cannot be provided in that there are no records in existence containing the requested information. Therefore, this portion of your requests is denied pursuant to KRS 61.870(2)."**

So, they don't keep records?   

It's possible that I asked the question the wrong way, so I may take another tact.  But if they indeed do not keep records like this it does bear asking the question why. The only thing colleges and universities have mastered at all is record keeping. So if they are not keeping records of this kind of information, then there is a reason why.

Solidarity!

I want to thank everyone again who signed the petition to have me reinstated without prejudice. If you'd still like to, or if you want to pass it around, here it is.

Some have expressed an interest in writing letters of support of my reinstatement. Here are some addresses:

• Insider Louisville: Sarah Kelley, VP of Content and Editorial Director: sarah@insiderlouisville.com.
• Louisville Courier Journal: http://archive.courier-journal.com/interactive/article/99999999/CUST/80212021/Letters-Editor
  JCTC Human Resources: Toni Whalen, Head of Human Resources at JCTC: toni.whalen@kctcs.edu
• KCTCS Head of Human Resources: Jackie Cecil: jackie.cecil@kctcs.edu

___________________________________________________________________________

 * This is most like one or all of the people previously referred to as #respondent53

** The red font type is theirs.

Gig Life Along the Dirty, Sacred River: Part 1 of ?

This is the gig.

The absolute deadline is Tuesday 9am. Friday afternoon is golden. Monday 5pm is the preferred latest, as this gives them time to stay flexible in determining whether the article meets their needs.

This is the gig.

Mornings have become a version of controlled chaos. The different accommodations and deals we made with ourselves to extend Sunday, to hold onto the last bit of the weekend, have come full circle.  Amanda gets ready to go her job. She's almost always the first up these days, so she lets the dogs out and tries to mentally prepare for what she has called "the cube life." I've fallen out of the discipline I had in my 30's, so I let myself lounge some. This is a habit I need break, because discipline is at the heart of everything I do. Discipline is the center. Discipline is the golden spike holding it all together.

This is the gig.

News isn't the sexiest writing, but it has meaning. It has purpose. In these, the latter days of Empire, writing the news isn't about informing the public so much as it is providing the larger narrative people need to understand the world around them. It's about making connections, ferreting out details, and slinging truth with as much detail and style as possible.

This is the gig.

There are those who claim to simply want the media to report "the facts." But the facts are rarely simple; and when they are, all that means is there's another story underneath that needs to crawl out in the air and light. Also I find that people are lying, mostly to themselves, when they say they just want the facts. What people want is a narrative that doesn't counter the narrative they've already told themselves over their lifetime. "Truth" is often a story we tell ourselves to explain how the world works, so we can stop paying attention and focus on other things.

This is the gig.

Amanda has been at work a half hour. The house is quiet for the moment. I'm drinking coffee and remembering that I didn't eat breakfast. I'm at my desk in the basement writing this, and as I am, the articles I have to knock out today are percolating in the back of my head, just they have been for the last few days. Sometimes the hardest part of this gig is finding the story -- not spin, as the cynics call it, but focus. A good news writer provides a lens, just like a movie director provides a lens. Not knowing the focus of an article before I sit down to write it frustrates me. Think of an article's focus like the closing of a giant sack. In order to find that focus, the sack has to be open to all things, to everything. In this, writing news is not unlike writing poetry, since writing poetry means being open to all things. But at some point, the sack is full. At some point, it must be tied off, or it will overflow and everything I've been trying to explain will be lost in the miasma.

This is the gig.

When I'm being honest, I tell people this gig is really about muckraking. The gig is about wading into the shit and public relations spin. The gig is about finding half rotten molars and turning them into pearls. The gig is about the same old ontological argument as poetry -- trying to find what a literature professor of mine once called Big "T" truth as opposed to Little "t" truth. The gig is an exercise in semantics -- finding the meaning of meaning.

This is the gig.

I read recently that I have more opportunity than ever in this "recovered" economy. Our house was built in 1946. It has old house problems. There are leaks that needs to be repaired that the recent rains have brought to our attention. The kitchen floor needs to be leveled from underneath. We have project plans for the dining room and the kitchen. The backyard is a jungle that could be an Eden. There are two more adult eaters and another dog living here for awhile. I remind myself, almost daily, that there is more outside of my control than in it. I have begun an almost perpetual form of meditation and prayer.  What I want most is a peaceful household, but I am constantly having to negotiate terms with myself. I was watching a show on stream recently and one of the characters said Being a father means being responsible for other other people. At least once a day I wonder how my father handled it -- truly handled it, as opposed to my memory of him handling it. And then I think about how I'm supposed to be able to rake in all this cash because it's the "gig economy" and I want to scream and unleash the demon in my heart.

This is the gig.

Everything reduces to poetry. Writing news has its own rhythm and resonance. It  has it's own alliteration and assonance. The focus is often born out of the form the article takes. I love it like I love teaching and poetry. They each takes a significant toll. They each simultaneously feed and emaciate the fabric of my soul. I meditate and pray on process. I look for the light in my daughter's eyes and hope it never fades. I dream of Montana and perpetual motion. I wait for Amanda to get home so I can find resolve and focus in her arms.

Respite Along the Dirty, Sacred River

During one of the recent torrential downpours, we discovered a leak in the dining room ceiling.  Like all things built by men, houses eventually spring leaks. We've narrowed it down to specific area on the roof -- which, if the rain breaks long enough, I'll crawl up there and see what needs to be done.

I generally like my more domesticated mode, though the life I've lived up to this point has left me woefully ill-prepared in the "How-Tos" of house repair. Words are my wheelhouse and most everything else is something else I've learned.  I'm part of a generation that either unwisely chose or was given no choice but to develop an expertise... the result that Ralph Waldo Emerson warned against in The American Scholar. I was schooled, but my education has taken a path outside of formal education.  I am always on the look out for teachers, for elders.  And this is a good thing, because while I can put words together in an effective way, I'll have to learn how to make structural home repairs.

Lately I've been preoccupied with my (still-ongoing) war against Versailles, with the political cycle, and with finding paying work. Lately my life feels like the psychological equivalent to being drawn and quartered -- being pulled in all directions tied to forces I can neither control nor really see. Poetry pulls. Work pulls. Family pulls. My need to improve my little corner of the world pulls. Other people pull.  I should be used to this by now. I'm a Pisces, after all, and forever swimming simultaneously in two directions... but my skin has worn thin of late.  I look in the mirror and see more a fool than a knight errant.  But I've learned that these mirages are temporary.  I stay in the moment and move forward because there is nothing else to do and I'm too stubborn to let the bastards win by stopping.

So, I get to learn how to fix a leaky roof. I get to learn how to shore up a badly built foundation (that would be the kitchen.) I get to learn how to do all kinds of things that I was not really prepared for by any of the education I've had. I see that as part of the journey, and I am lucky that on this journey I am not alone.