Pretzel logic

Things I learned today:

* Don’t panic.
* Avoid doing anything stupid or illegal.
* Driving to work is a process.
* If you get a paper cut, you must fill out an accident report form.
* If the building is on fire and you’re asked to evacuate, don’t smoke.
Bonus vocabulary: To Onboard

I hear you’re leaving, that’s OK

Mike Daly, Connecticut Post managing editor

For anyone who doesn’t know, today is my last day at the Connecticut Post. It’s a bittersweet departure, as I’ve been there about a decade and have come to think of it as home.

I remember my first day here. It was 1994. I was in my last year of j-school and I had snagged an internship on the business desk. I showed up in a pressed white shirt, tie, a pair of jeans and some Docksiders. I felt pretty spiffy and was still getting myself settled when the editor, Rick Sayers (who in those days looked a lot like Uncle Pennybags from Monopoly) walked up to me.

“Mr. Crowder,” he said, “we don’t wear dungarees at the Connecticut Post.”

He walked off, leaving the words to resonate in my head. Since then, I never again wore dungarees to work, even when I got stuck working on weekends or holidays.

Today, I wore dungarees to work. I enjoy the symmetry of that.

Now I start a new career, working as a communications specialist (i.e., public relations) for the local utility. It’s daunting to set out in a new career path, and a little ironic, since for most of my career I’ve seen PR folks as sellouts or professional adversaries. (I’ve accused many an exiting journo of “crossing over to the Dark Side“; those words have since come back to haunt me.)

You can bet that I won’t wear dungarees on my first day, which is Monday.

My conception of career has never been a straight line to a specific goal, but rather a meandering garden path replete with forks, bumps and the occasional rake threatening to rear up and whack you in the face if you step on it.

I never set out to be a journalist. I took one journalism course during my first attempt at college. When I decided to take a second stab at higher education, I went to an enrollment fair at the local state university and, having decided that I’m a pretty good writer and don’t mind reading, I filled out the enrollment form for would-be English majors.

I was on my way back to the English department booth when I spotted the much smaller booth maintained by journalism department.

“You know?” I said to myself. “That just seems so much more practical.”

I crumpled up the piece of paper in my hand and never looked back.

Until now.

Any major dude with half a heart …

“It is foolish to tear one’s hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness.” – Cicero

“If at first you don’t succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried.” – Stephen Wright

“I am not discouraged because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward.” – Thomas Edison

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

“Have you ever seen a squonk’s tears? Well look at mine. The people on the streets have all seen better times. Any major dude with half a heart surely would tell you, my friend.” – Steely Dan

No escape from the rajas of erase

I’m an atheist. And sometimes I pray. Weird, huh?

I was raised in an unreligious household. That felt normal to me. Other kids I knew grew up with unquestioning belief in God because that’s what their parents believed. For me it was the opposite. When my parents finally introduced me to the concept, it sounded strange and implausible — just as a godless world sounds strange and implausible to the faithful.

My real introduction to religion came when I was 9 and was accepted into a top-flight boys’ choir at an Episcopal church. They never pushed religion on us, but it’s almost hard not to believe when you’re sitting in the chancel of a century-old church, gazing at the Tiffany windows as Bach’s “Passacaglia & Fugue” thunders from the 4,600-pipe Aeolian-Skinner Organ.

I got myself baptized and confirmed at the Episcopal church, then, shortly after my voice changed, began attending an evangelical church that had a remarkably successful youth program. I went on a retreat, and for a while I believed with a fervor I think is only possible for someone who really wants to believe but isn’t quite sold. Within a year or so the fervor burned itself out. Over the years I toyed with godless New Age hippy spirituality and Buddhism. But eventually I accepted myself for what I am: an atheist. (I still kind of dig Buddhism since it doesn’t really require a belief in God.)

Faith (or faithlessness) is a lot like love: It’s something you simply feel in your gut — whether it plants itself early on and takes root over the years, or suddenly falls down from the heavens when you’re least expecting it. It’s something you know.

So why pray? I pray for my friends, my family, and those dear to me, when they are being tested. I don’t really believe God or some intermediary will intercept my prayers and act on them. But I don’t completely exclude the possibility, either. And it therefore seems selfish to leave open the chance that my loved ones will suffer because of my lack of faith. And I believe that like so many religious rituals — confession, communion — prayer is healthy, no matter what we believe. It may or may not connect us with divinity. But it definitely helps us connect with ourselves, and others.

Hard times befallen

Finally, someone created a Web site for the three-legged crowd. Bring on the catnip.

I’m a bookkeeper’s son, I don’t wanna hurt no one

TSG is posting a play supposedly written by Cho Sueng-Hui, the suspected Virginia Tech killer. All I can say is, it’s more oedipal than Oedipus Rex.

Throw a kiss …

Chocolate better than kissing? Now there’s some research I’d love to disprove. Meanwhile, maybe Richard Gere should stick to giving chocolates to the beauties of Bollywood.

UPDATE: The study is bull.

Time Out Of Mind

My memory was never much good to begin with. And it hasn’t gotten any better after all those years of recreational drug abuse and heavy drinking. So I was intrigued when I came across this article touting the restorative powers of dancing.

Showbiz kids making movies of themselves

My mother takes a malicious, maternal delight in dragging out embarrassing photos of me and showing them to anyone who visits her home. (The photo above is the best I can do by way of revenge.) I’m sure my grandmother, too, had a file full of photos of my mom with her finger in her nose, sitting on the potty or running around in her skivvies in the backyard. I’m also sure my mom burned them first chance she got.

Of course, you can’t burn the Internet, which is opening up delightful new ways to embarrass your friends and family. In fact, on all over the Internet people are busy embarrassing themselves without any help from fiendish friends or sadistic siblings.

So when someone e-mailed me this circa-1980 video of my friend and hair stylist Jamie McGann singing for the Poodle Boys, I couldn’t just settle for just watching it. I had to blog it.

I don’t want to do your dirty work

Meet the new boss…