I finally got to meet my nephew Ryan. He’s 11 months old.
Ryan Meets His Uncle
Journalists: Dress Right at Work
While Caps fans on Tuesday were treated to a 3-2 overtime victory, I instead attended a panel to honor the late, great Shirley Povich at the University of Maryland’s College of Journalism. While that doesn’t necessarily sound like more fun than a hockey game, I found it remarkable watching the banter of Washington Post legends Michael Wilbon, Tony Kornheiser, George Solomon, Don Graham, Ben Bradlee, and David Aldridge. Povich’s children, including Maury (yes, that one) also attended, as well as other established journalists and journalism students. (Only one Connie Chung reference during the evening.)
While much of the panel was dedicated to telling stories about Povich’s remarkable 75-year Washington Post career (he wrote six or seven columns a week), and while sometimes getting sidetracked (Kornheiser goofed on Wilbon for going to Dunkin Donuts before the panel), some notable advice did come out of this. I’ll skip the part about interviewing techniques with athletes after a loss, or how journalists aren’t as focused on the craft of writing any longer, and tell about the show-stealer.
In an angry rant, Michael Wilbon made it clear that sports journalists today do not dress professionally. He even cursed a few times (while this was being filmed). Perhaps it’s because journalists he learned from, including Povich, always dressed professionally.
I agree with him. I’m betting that it’s the relative relaxed nature of the sports beat (as opposed to, say, presidential beats), and over time some journalists tossed the suit and tie and now it’s come to being completely casual. I’ve personally witnessed Dave Feldman from Fox 5 show up to a Redskins preseason game press conference in shorts, and a Capitals game in torn jeans (keep in mind that TV reporters are often shot from the waist-up.). And Feldman is a veteran reporter, not a blogger out of college.
Wilbon has a point. Journalists, especially those out interviewing people, ought to class it up a bit, just for the sake of respectability, before the next generation comes and makes it even worse.
Update: The Post picked up the story.
My Grandmother’s Cuckoo Clock
You can’t put a price on sentimental value, and that’s why I decided to get my grandmother’s cuckoo clock fixed, after it hadn’t worked for probably more than 35 years. My father originally bought it, I think in Switzerland, and gave it to her. My grandmother’s story is that my uncle and grandfather couldn’t stand listening to it, so she brought it to the basement, and over the years I suppose it just stopped working.
After an all-round fix, then a secondary fix that took far longer than the first fix, it’s now working again, and my grandmother is happy about it. However, she’ll leave it on the wall for show, and perhaps use it only for company, because the truth is, the clock is fragile and we don’t want it to break again. Still, I say it’s worth the price I paid.
Roman numerals.
The doors have hooks in case we want to turn off either the bird or the boy.
The bird comes out to cuckoo on the hour and the half hour. I don’t really think he’s paying attention to the real time, though.
The little man comes out to play music but the door doesn’t open as far as it should and he merely stands inside, instead of poking his head out. Oh well.
Three standard weights hang from the chains. I think they must be pulled to the top once a day to stay working. It must be completely level on the wall for it to work.
My Grandfather’s WWII Stuff
Years ago, my grandfather would take me to his basement to show me his box full of World War II stuff. It contained a German helmet, some Nazi knives, and a couple of old handguns. (See photos of him during World War II here.)
Many years later, my grandfather discovered that some of the stuff was stolen. My grandparents had some work done – a couple of times – in their basement, and had no idea anything was taken until it was too late to know exactly when it was taken or which person/persons took it. The guns and knives were taken. I recall my grandfather, in his 80s, saying that losing those guns ‘broke his heart.’
Here’s what we’ve got left. The helmet, four holsters, a Nazi belt buckle, and a canteen. I’m assuming the holsters are from WWII, but I’d have to take them to an expert to get authenticated.
The helmet and the canteen, relatively speaking, seem small. Maybe the German had a small head, and maybe 1940s soldiers had smaller canteens than the ones I’ve seen in supply stores. The canteen has English written on it so I’m unclear if it’s a U.S. canteen or a German one that he found. It also has a broken lid that was replaced with a working one.
Also, the German helmet has the name Gren Fribrmamm (I think) on it.
Holding an Infant
I’m fairly certain that this is the first time in about a decade that I’ve held an infant (Jan. 1, 2012). This being the child of my friend James, holding her was less of a choice and more about him putting her on my lap, but needless to say, it was very nice. This is Sophia Chiu at five months. I’ll remind her that I held her when she’s all grown up.
