Anyone?

What was a smoking when I thought it might be a good idea to try and finish my M.L.S while working full-time? See below for my final exam in Information Policy due tomorrow by 8:05 p.m. You'd think being a professional, somewhat intelligent woman type person I'd have given up the procrastination of my youth. You'd think wrong. For those of you who think we wannabe librarians take courses like "Book shelving for Dummies," or "How to Collect Fines with Grace," I present the following:

QUESTION 1: What are the possible approaches to personal information privacy in light of the differences between US and EU policy? In your discussion, compare the approaches you select and discuss the merits and demerits of each. In addition, develop a possible model for an approach or approaches that would seek to strike a balance between privacy, property, and national security.

QUESTION 2: Is our traditional notion of privacy worth protecting in the digital age, or should technological developments lead us to a new understanding of the meaning of 'public' and 'private'?

QUESTION 3: The following appeared in the November 2004 of the California Monthly (A Berkeley Alumni magazine): “The Whole World’s Watching: In homage to the birthplace of the Free Speech Movement, engineering professor Ken Goldberg and his students recently installed a video camera on Sproul Plaza that can be viewed on the Web. The public art project, which they call “Demonstrate,” allows viewers to zoon in on people in the plaza, take photos, and post them on the site (demonstrate.Berkeley.edu), with comments. In deference to privacy laws, the postings are subject to restrictions: no spying on nearby private residences and no looking up skirts.” Describe the various privacy and other issues that you would identify from this report, and utilizing the readings in the class and elsewhere, discuss and analyze the problems and possible solutions.

QUESTION 4: Is 'propertizing' personal information a socially desirable way of protecting privacy in the digital age? Is it an effective way?

Bring it On, Golden Pond

I have come to the realization that my work life is starting to resemble something out of Office Space, unfortunately that something is not Jennifer Aniston. Someone just said, "Happy Thursday!" On a completely unrelated note, I just read that Pretty Girls Make Graves and Bob Schneider are both playing Columbus next month which makes the day a bit easier to bear.

File Under: WTF?

The following arrived in my inbox this morning:

Living alone has its perks (not putting up with the patchouli-scented roommate who burned a hole in your couch with incense) and its drawbacks (not getting to cry on that roommate’s shoulder when you get dumped). For the best of both worlds, move in with Adrian, the music lover. Or Adriano, the foodie. Or clotheshorse Christine, party queen Pricilla, career girl Terry, or couch potato Paul. They’re all characters created by Single Wallpaper, photographic wall coverings with images of life-size people who will keep you company without bugging the crap out of you. A few come with their own backgrounds (a wardrobe for Christine), but you can order bold geometric prints like orange circles, pink swirls, and green ovals for the rest. They’re also removable, so you can switch them around, change them up, or take them down when you get sick of their mug. It’s like having a totally compliant, quiet roommate who will always listen to you complain. Without destroying your property.

Editing a Life

"One day there is life . . . and then, suddenly, it happens there is death."
From The Invention of Solitude.

Inside my windowless office, the thunder and rain are lulling me into an afternoon coma. If I were home, I'd be sitting on my porch, enjoying the storm and reading a book. But, I'm not. I'm stuck in front of computer screen, typing of things that will not matter. I just received an e-mail from my grandfather and I'm not sure how to respond. He has sent me his obituary to look over and edit.

While I've certainly contemplated my own existence, I've never really contemplated my demise. There is a life somewhere among the words he has sent and a man who has lived them. "If left up to your grandmother," he explains, "it would read, Joe's not here anymore."

I am strangely moved and deeply honored by his request, but how could I be so presumptous as to attempt to edit one's life?

Spinster or Secret Slut?

Mating
On the Sly
Think you know everything about your best friend’s sex life? Not hardly.
By Amy Sohn
A few years ago, I started seeing a man twice my age. We’d meet at his apartment in the afternoon, or go for long dinners or drinks at local bars that ended at three in the morning. On one of our first dates, I blew off a girlfriend’s birthday party, making up excuses to keep spending time with him. That was when I realized why my affair was so sexy: I was cheating on my friends. I didn’t tell a single friend about the affair until two months into it, by which time it was almost over. Naturally, they said all the things that made me not want to tell them in the first place: "Is he married?" (no), "Do you love him?" (maybe), and "Where’s it going?" (nowhere long-term). I knew it was dead-end, but it was charged and sexy, mainly because it was mine.

There are many secret sluts in New York who lead hidden erotic lives. One girlfriend of mine would regularly go out with men she met on JDate, but on lonely nights, she’d hook up with the beefy Italian counter guy at her local deli. It’s split-personality dating, and it’s more common than you’d think.
"I dated a guy that was really short," says Sam, 26, an art director. "When we were with my girlfriends, I acted like his friend, but he was awesome in bed. It finally fizzled out because it was too much trouble to keep it secret." She says her friends would have written him off as "not her type," so she opted to conceal the relationship.
Of course, sometimes there is a thin line between hot, great sex and hot, guilty sex. Though secret sluts are quick to proclaim that they stay private because they don’t want to be judged, some may be doing it because they are judging themselves—for getting less than they really want from their partner or for sleeping with someone they can’t, or won’t, show in public. Often, those who get us most excited are the ones we feel least comfortable bringing to a party.
Josie, 26, a jewelry designer, has several regular "fuck buddies" she hooks up with on the sly. "Sometimes after a night out with my girlfriends, I tell them I’m going home," she says. "But then I wink to myself and hook up with one of these guys. It’s nice to have something you can keep to yourself because it makes it sexier." The secrecy makes the relationship feel more illicit, which adds to the excitement, even when nobody’s cheating.

She had sex with one FB, a musician, at one of his shows, near the stage door between sets. "I didn’t tell anyone because that made it feel more like an affair, and I know for a fact that he didn’t either. A lot of guys don’t talk about their sexual escapades because they don’t need feedback from anyone else. It’s a masculine quality to know how to suppress things." She points out that her public late-night flings (she’s done it in alleys) are sexually satisfying. "These guys are taking care of me, too," she says. "I get to live out my fantasies."

When she tells friends about her hookups, they call her a "man-eater" and seem unable to understand why she does it. So now she stays mum. "I don’t need to hear opinions about my behavior," says Josie, "because I know why I’m doing it."

Even within the confines of a monogamous relationship, many women have learned to say less, not more, when it comes to the details. Sam, the art director, told some of her friends that she and her boyfriend were playing around with fruit in bed. "They called me ‘Froot Loop’ after that. I was more embarrassed for them than me, that they thought it was such a big deal. Most women don’t want to know who they are sexually. They think it’s cool to be ignorant."

Colleen, a divorced 51-year-old marketing consultant, had a yearlong, sexually adventurous committed relationship. She told girlfriends she had discovered sex toys and other products that helped her get in touch with a more liberated side, and they "cringed," she says. "I thought women in New York were progressive and modern, but mention this stuff and they don’t want to hear it."
Why was it so important to her to give details? "It was this wonderful experience, and I wanted to share my excitement with them," she says sadly. "But they don’t want to hear it because they might have to admit they weren’t connected to that side of themselves."
In cases like this, when a woman wants to confide, the mockery can be downright depressing. "Sometimes I feel like I’m the entertainment for my friends," says Sam. "It’s like they’re all children laughing at my stories. Every now and then, they’ll have a hookup and it’s great fun and they’ll tell me, ‘Oh, my God, he was smacking my butt! We were getting down and dirty!’ I’m like, ‘Great—if that’s what you think is dirty.’ "
Find this article at:
http://www.newyorkmetro.com/nymetro/nightlife/sex/columns/mating/12255/index.html

Professional Sucker

When approached about participating in an article on young professionals in Charleston, I made every attempt to pimp out my friends, acquaintances and co-workers. Not because I wanted to see the article come to fruition or give them their say, but rather because I wanted no part of it. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. Now I must spend the next two days thinking of ways in which I can sing the praises of Chucktown without selling my soul or offending the management committee. In truth, I don't hate it here; most days I don't love it here, either. And when asked, "So, what brought you back to West Virginia?" Do I really want to admit, "Well, I couldn't find a job anywhere else." Um, no. But, could I really look myself in a mirror after uttering, "The stellar reputation of *unnamed professional services firm* paired with the beauty of both the city and its people made the decision to come back rather easy." Yeah, don't think so.

Grocery Gripe

I rarely get road rage, but I do suffer from retail rage and I especially hate grocery shopping. When Sartre wrote, "Hell is other people," I'm fairly certain he never shopped at the Ashton Place Kroger on a Saturday morning, but the sentiment is just the same. It starts in the parking lot and doesn't dissipate until my bags are in the trunk and I'm on my way home. I head in for one or two things and get distracted by everything else. But, the trip is never complete without someone's shopping cart riding my ass impatiently while I unload onto the conveyor. And do I ever have that damn Kroger card? Nope! I like the offerings of Healthy Life Market, but I just can't get beyond the fact that I'm shopping at Drug Emporium. I typically frequent the Purple Onion because they're friendly and their selection is small enough to be interesting, but not distracting.

When I'm out of town, though, I love to swing by a Trader Joe's or Wild Oats Market (the nearest both being in Columbus). With the notable absence of a grocery store in my neighborhood, I begain looking at how these stores decide to open new ones. Trader Joe's criteria was listed plainly on its site and with their low prices and small store size it would seem the perfect addition to the neighborhood provided the prostitute currently frequenting the spot can find a new place to set up shop. I also e-mailed Wild Oats to inquire about their criteria for store placement. While the representative wasn't too keen on giving away their selection process, but she did share the number one attribute of their cutomers, regardless of age, gender, nationality or income is education and as such they look for real estate locations that have a high level of education in the surrounding demographic area. I don't know the demographic breakdown of my neighborhood, but I do know it's a happy mix of gentrifiers, miscreants and weirdos and that's the way I like it. Of course, I'd like it a little more with a decent grocery store.

A 9?

I was thumbing through the paper this morning when I happened upon the horoscopes. According to Ms. Joyce Jillson, today was supposed to be a 9 (out of 10). So far, I've had an interesting e-mail conversation on childrearing, researched corporate wellness programs and visited Target. Please tell me the best is yet to come.

Update: I finished up the day with some friends, some drinks and some interesting conversation. I realized something. When it comes down to it good beer, good friends and good conversation (not necessarily in that order) don't just make for a good day, but a great one. Definitely a 9 in my book.

Manuel Noriega was a Very Good Pen Pal

When I was 11, I had a pen pal named Amy. She lived in California and used to write about visiting Disneyland all the time. Kind of annoying actually, but I thought she was pretty cool nonetheless.

For the past two weeks or so I've been catching up on This American Life which is evidently music to my office neighbor's' ears as they are no longer peeking their heads in to ask, "What are you listening to?" In the winter months I like to turn it on as a soundtrack of sorts to accompany my misguided knitting efforts and I've been missing it like crazy. When I discovered that you could listen to episodes dating back to 1995, I decided it was time to play a little catch up.

Anyway, the one I chose today was about letter writing. One of the stories featured Sarah York from Michigan's UP. Her pen pal? Manuel Noriega. She even got a trip to Panama out of it. All I got was a friendship bracelet and a postcard from Anaheim. You can listen here.

Hug a Librarian

I don't understand how people can't recognize how important a public library is and how essential the services it provides are to a community. Oh well. More books for me. The fate of the libraries in Salinas, California will be decided during a special election in November. (Full article available here.)

When it looked like author John Steinbeck's hometown would have to close its three libraries, schoolkids opened lemonade stands, and celebrities opened their checkbooks. Now, fund-raisers who have succeeded in keeping the libraries open part-time can add one more group of donors to their list:

The inmates of San Quentin.

Prisoners in San Quentin's inmate-to-inmate tutoring program sponsored something of a bake sale for literacy, selling doughnuts, pizza and fried chicken to other prisoners. Today, they will present a $1,000 check to the ailing Salinas Free Library, plus another $500 for literacy services in Marin County.
Those sums are nothing to sniff at, given that an inmate with a high- paying prison job makes $56 a month.
Inmates say they raised the money in part because they wouldn't have ended up in prison had they gone further in school. They say they could not imagine their own lives without San Quentin's modest library, which is open to the general prison population six days a week.

And some wanted to point out budget priorities that have governments cutting education programs and closing libraries while spending more money on prisons.

"If you take away libraries and recreation centers, the only place kids have to end up is a place like this," said convicted killer Olish Tunstall, 39, who came up with the idea to help Salinas after seeing a story about it on the news.

Liars Hate Their Fans

I hate when a band has a really incredible first album only to be followed up with complete shit. I know the latest cd was released over a year ago, but it pissed me off so much that I put it away and forgot about it until this morning. It's still shit.

Backpage News

Hidden on page 12 of this morning's Gazette was a blurb about a sexual assault which occurred in the administrative offices of a local hospital. The assault took place in the women's restroom where the assailant bound her hands and placed duct tape over her eyes and mouth.

A few years ago I heard rumors about a local college underreporting sexual assaults on its campus and several articles I've read since then would indicate that this likely happens quite a bit. I don't know if the motivation for hiding the piece was simply lack of content, a desire to protect the victim (a good thing), or if it had something to do with the hospital itself. It's important that rape not become a backpage issue.

Zivila: Crazy for Croatia

Who knew I was ahead of my time? I've always wanted to travel to Croatia, especially the coast of Dalmatia where my mother's family originates. Evidently it's become some sort of underground haven for celebrity vacations. When my sister and I were younger I always looked forward to traveling to see my grandparents where my grandfather would try to teach us the language of our great-grandparents. I remember the cyrillic spelling of my name and dancing the kola and eating lamb during Kennywood Park's Croatian Day every summer. The happy times as war ravaged the country and its people. My grandfather no longer wanted to talk about the country of his people. He didn't want to share his knowledge or his love of the culture. The war has been over for a number of years now, but my grandfather still finds it difficult to speak. I'd still like to travel there someday. It both saddens and excites me that I might have to do it on my own.

Fill my Pills

A few weeks ago I read a piece in the Sunday Gazette Mail about area pharmacists refusing to fill prescriptions for "Plan B," an emergency contraceptive which can be used to reduce the risks of pregancy after unprotected intercourse. Yesterday, I received a mailing from Planned Parenthood (one of the few organizations I support financially) and found that this problem is not confined to my little corner of the world. Of course the intent of the letter was to encourage me to send more money, but what I learned left me both angry and confused. I do not believe that pharmacists should have the right of refusal. And I find it appalling that as an educated, professional woman I can be denied the right of service because my believes are in opposition to the stranger in the white coat behind the counter. It's bad enough that in many stores you find condoms and pregnancy tests locked in cabinets. I consider myself to be a moral person, but if I were seventeen I probably think about stealing them before I'd ask a pharmacist for them.

Dealing with a potentially unwanted pregancy is difficult enough without having to worry about receiving condemnation from a pharmacist. And what about those who have been sexually violated? To add the extra burden of judgment is simply cruel. In our area Rite-Aid and Wal-Mart are the two major chains that enable their pharmacists to refuse women their prescriptions. CVS has established a policy "to insure all prescriptions including birth control medications are dispensed." I think this goes beyond birth control. It takes the power of choice from a woman and places it in the hands of someone else and that scares the hell out of me.

Mr. R

When I was a freshman at WVU, I had an instructor that kind of changed my path. He wasn't the best teacher I've had and certainly not the most challenging, but he taught me that it's sometimes okay to say "Fuck it." I entered college unsure of what I wanted to do with my life (hell, I'm still not completely sure). So, I majored in business because it seemed to make my dad proud or something like that. Mr. R was my English composition instructor. Looking back I think he'd simply seen Dead Poet's Society one too many times, but back then I thought he was simply incredible. We did a lot of talking, we didn't follow a syllabus. We listened to him read what he had written. It was a large class and when one of our classmates died in a weekend car accident he sent us all home to reflect and write. He'd come to class with his long, blond hair tied loosely behind his head, tied died tank tops and grungy flannel shirts. He'd tell us about his latest literary acquisition (usually something testosterone driven) and encourage us to "just write." It's almost embarrassing to admit how captivated we were by his (now obvious) superficial charm.

One day he came into class enraged. He'd walked behind some guy from his apartment to Woodburn Hall and couldn't believe that the guy, a smoker, would just throw his lit cigarette down on the ground. "They don't biodegrade, you know," he sighed. At the time I remember being touched by his concern for the environment. When we met for our weekly evaluations he would compliment my writing and encourage me to major in English which is what I wanted to do. "You can do anything with the degree," he said. "You don't have to teach or go to law school." And I believed him.

One random Fall day I was walking down High Street and saw Mr. R. I was a safe distance away and saw him with his grungy flannel and his old workboots making his way down the street. I remember he was smoking a cigarette and as he turned to enter a store he threw it, lit, down onto the ground. It seems ridiculously trivial, but that single action tarnished my image of him. A few weeks later as the semester was nearing to an end, I entered the room and saw an unfamiliar woman standing before the class. I would later find out that she was the department head and the one responsible for compiling the text we rarely used.

"Mr. R will not be returning to your class," she said. "I will remain through the end of the semester." She then began our writing exercise with not so much as another word about him. I was lucky enough to live on a co-ed floor with one of my classmates. We'd heard rumors that Mr. R had shot someone and decided to call. Jason lost the bet and as such was responsible for making the call. It rang and rang until finally Mr. R answered. He told us that yes, he had shot his neighbor and that he had missed. He asked about the department head and said, "If I'd been aiming at that bitch, you can believe I wouldn'tve missed." Jason told him that he and I were there together and he asked to talk to me. I wish I could remember what he said.

I think about him sometimes. I wonder what he's doing. And then I wonder why I care.

I'm with the band

I overheard an interesting exchange last night at the bar. Where I was is unimportant and who I heard even moreso. Bearing in mind that I was embarrassingly drunk ( and suffering from extremely bad hair - damn humidity), this mangled reenactment will have to suffice:

(Not totally random) guy at bar: Do you even like these guys? What does it take to get a decent band in Charleston?
Guy behind bar: Actually, I prefer Baroque especially Vivaldi, but these guys pay my bills. I LOVE these guys. I'd bring a Chamber Quartet in if I could, but this is what pays.

So, what does it take to get decent music in Charleston? Surely if the jumping, jamming mass of last night is any indication people can be forced to like anything. Why can't I force them into liking something I'd actually enjoy paying to hear?

Shameless Admission: The last time I saw this band play, I admit I was part of the jumping, jamming mass. It was a smaller venue and the crowd had a lot more energy which can sometimes be infectious even with the worst of bands. Though I acknowledge last night's band was certainly not the worst I've heard.

And to (Not totally random) guy: Thanks for the drink AND for not getting my ass kicked. Though I admit the thought of sneaking out in the midst of a bar brawl among a swarm of smelly, mulleted men does have a certain appeal. Maybe next time?

Wish I was here...

Banana Joe's I hardly knew ye

Evidently the girls went too wild at Banana Joe's last weekend.

Night falls on Chucktown

Once again The Gazz shows us that metal rules the nightlife...

Jimmy Who?

In truth, a girl like me, with Gap taste and an Old Navy budget, shouldn't even know who (or what) a Jimmy Choo is, but when I saw a pair similiar to these on a recent trip I had to know what it might feel like to wear shoes that cost more than my rent. So, I tried them on; they hurt. I thought for $575 I might find them filled with tiny pillows allowing me to float across the floor or at least walk across the store. No such luck. Looks like I'll be sticking with the same old shoes, but at least I'll be able to pay my rent.

Walking the Dog

Recently I've come to realize that I might be more of a cat person. I've fought it for awhile, but it's just time to face facts. I'm an English major, a spinster and a cat lover. But, I do love my dog, too. The thing about having a dog, though, is that you have to be social. You have to walk him and give him baths and unless he's just big and scary or you're evil, you've gotta take him to the dog park.

Since I've been walking my dog around the neighborhood, I've noticed more of my neighbors speaking to me. I was never anti-social, but I guess having a dog serves as some sort of common ground. Something you just don't get from owning a cat, unless, of course, you're walking him on a leash as well and I really can't bring myself to do that. Neighbors that would once hurry by to and from their way to whereever now stop and chat (mostly to the dog). I would suspect that many of them would be unable to recall my name, but none seem to have difficulty with my dog's.

As I do every morning, I stepped off my porch around 6:30 and headed across the street to being our walk. As I placed foot to sidewalk a man turned the corner with his two (very cute and siginificantly smaller) dogs. He stopped short and looked at me as if we were about to duel. He pursed his lips causing him to look annoyed (and a little psychotic) and began to step off the sidewalk to cross the street. "No," I said. "I'll cross." And I did. No, "Thank you." No acknowledgement at all. He. Just. Kept. Walking. Next time I'm not crossing.

I'm a loser

Like more than a few people in the state I could stand to lose (more than) a few pounds. For the past six weeks or so I've been determinedly working out and limiting my intake of various items (including *sigh* alcohol) and, according to my latest weigh-in, I've lost about 14 (13.6 to be accurate) pounds total (this includes gaining a few pounds of muscle). Thanks to this thing I was able to learn that most of that has been fat loss; I've also added a few pounds of muscle which is definitely a good thing. I think this is the first thing I've really done just for myself and while I admit certain prospects drive my determination, the real force is, quite simply, me.

If I maintain my current pace, which according the personal trainer I should be able to do, I'll be at my goal size by December easy. So, if you're an intelligent, witty, moderately attractive man under the age of 35 be warned because around December I'll be looking for you. Oh wait. Am I losing weight or my mind. I'll still be here.

Moving

I presume most people my age have at least thought about leaving West Virginia. I left for a few years to attend grad school and while that wasn't nearly as far as I would've liked it did allow me the opportunity to intellectually mature and outgrow the mentality of equating being in West Virginia with being stuck. That said, I do think about leaving West Virginia. I think about it a lot. I even have a list of about ten cities to which I'd consider moving (in no particular order). And yet, I'm still here. I suppose some of it has to do with fear. Starting over is fun, but making friends and creating a life for yourself can be hard. The thought of moving so far away by myself is scary too, but depending on someone else is almost more frightening. There are so many things I love about Charleston and West Virginia as a whole and possibly an equal number of things I can't stand. My family is here, but in truth, I have nothing tying me to this place. Nothing physical at least. I have no mortgage, no children, no husband. I have a good job and some good friends and a cool apartment and good neighbors and I have a life.

Am I angry because I've been listening to angry girl music or have I been listening to angry girl music because I'm angry? I overslept, missed the gym, ran into a prior indiscretion and am in a generally bad mood. Consider this your warning shot.

Coincidence?

It seems too obvious not to have been mentioned somewhere else, but just in case...
Does the new WV DEP logo remind anyone else of the Gap's logo circa 1980 something (or did I just spend too much of my youth in the mall)?

Words to paper

On a library list recently someone wrote, "Girls who read Judy Blume don't grow up to read books. They grow up to read magazines." While reading Blume's books might have allowed me to see beyond my "idyllic" suburban existence, I don't know that they served to impede my appreciation for literature. In spite of my early Blume affliction, I've grown up to enjoy the written word in all forms and in addition to being a proud bibliophile am, admittedly, a bit of a magazine whore, too. I'll peruse anything from the Economist to the National Enquirer, but my real interest is the independent media. Venus (started in the editor's Michigan dorm room) and Bitch are two longtime favorites and I was thrilled to see both on the magazine rack at the independent bookstore and a national chain recently. I was doubly excited away when I saw Clamor Magazine sitting there alongside it. Clamor is published in Toledo, Ohio by 'zinesters Jen Angel and, my former grad school crush, Jason Kucsma. Jason also founded the Allied Media Conference which is a gathering of those who produce and are interested in independent media held annually on the campus of Bowling Green State University. I had the opportunity to attend while at Bowling Green and it was such an incredible experience to participate as these people interested in alternative (if not always unbiased) information sources and press came together to discuss their tools and techniques.

I think it's important for people to know that there are alternatives to the traditional press. Just as there are hundreds (if not thousands) of suckass blogs, there are equally as many 'zines and self-published works. But, I think more important than the quality of the content is the fact that they take the time and the effort to put their words to paper and to say what's on their mind. Too many people accept what the media gives them. They don't question and don't respond. They just absorb like sponges. If you're interested in alternative media, Zine World: The Reader's Guide to the Underground Press is a good place to start. Having done some editing for them, I'm slightly biased, but it is kind of the 'zinesters Bible, covering all things alternative media. As with most things in this area, it's solely a volunteer effort undertaken by those whose passion is sharing their own.

(Charleston) You're no rock and roll fun...

Admittedly, I've never been a big metal fan. I mean, sure, there was that Guns-n-Roses phase back in the late 80s, but I was like eleven and was fairly confident I'd grow up to marry George Michael, so I'm not even sure it counts. Last night, we headed to this place to see these guys. After downing a few of these and watching the old people dance, we headed to our old standby which was claustrophobic and gross. I negotiated a refund of our cover charge and we headed down the block where we ran into an old high school friend who suckered us into watching this band play. If you enjoy a good mullet hunt, these shows are the place to go. Surprisingly, the Sound Factory was packed which, honestly, made me a little sad. If you'll believe the Gazz's nighttime blogger the only things going on (or worth seeing) are metal shows. It saddens me that I live in a place where Clutch is considered a "big show." I know plenty of people with decent (and discriminating) musical taste and I know a surprising number of people with real musical talent. So, why is there not better music available in Charleston?

As large a crowd as the band drew, and as high the cover charge, I don't understand why Charleston can't bring bigger names. Mary Timony toured small clubs this past year and charged just $8; Sleater-Kinney tickets were $15; Bob Schneider has done club tours for $10 and in venues not much larger than some of Charleston's. With a little promotion and ingenuity Charleston clubs could surely attract better bands and larger crowds. Not that we need to look outside the city for musical talent. For a town its size, Charleston has a decent music scene and a variety of talented musicians. Unfortunately, people seem too willing to write-up the same three bands time and time again and ignore the rest.

You know who you are...

To the Quarrier Street driver who waved me into traffic and then called me an "ungrateful fucking bitch," when I refused to cross the street as a car whizzed by in the other lane -- Thank you. Now, I can spend my Friday evening mocking your mall hair and drinking (not necessarily in that order) and not in the emergency room where acting upon your kind gesture would have surely sent me. And you can spend yours telling everyone how you tried to do something nice and people just don't appreciate common courtesy anymore. Unless of course your intent was to send me to the emergency room in which case, please refer to photo above.

"Bill's thirty-two. He looks thirty-two. He looked it five years ago. He'll look it twenty years from now. I hate men." --Margo Channing.

Free Judith Miller

If you've watched the national news or picked up any newspaper recently, you've likely read about the case of two journalists being tried on civil contempt charges. Both reporters face jail time for refusing to divulge their sources after a CIA operative's name was leaked to the media. Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald told the judge in the case, "Journalists are not entitled to promise complete confidentiality -- no one in America is." Time magazine's Matthew Cooper agreed to testify about his sources, Judith Miller did not. On Wednesday, New York Times reporter, Miller was sentenced to jail time after refusing to break her promise and reveal her confidential source to the grand jury investigating the leak. Miller's story was never published.

While this particular case is being heavily publicized it is not the first time that reporters have battled over freedom of the press and certainly not the first time that a reporter has been jailed rather than betray the confidences of their sources. Reporters around the globe have been jailed for daring to challenge media controls of their respective governments. In 2000, several U.S. journalists were threatened with jail time for not revealing their sources when writing about Wen Ho Lee, the former nuclear weapons expert accused of being a possible spy. Unconvicted, Lee spent nearly a year in jail before being released.

Anonymous sources and a reporter's privilege to keep them so are essential to a free press. This enables journalists to do their jobs without fear of prosecution or retribution. A number of states have statutes creating various levels of privilege, but in the United States there is no national standard. A national shield law would enable reporters to protect their sources and keep information flowing.

Why do you do what you do?

Why do you you do what you do? It seems a simple enough question, but when I gave it some thought I realized I didn't have much of an answer. This site asks its visitors to submit a photo of themselves answering the question. In the past six months two people near my age and that I have known died. One from Cancer another after suffering a massive heart attack. Both were under the age of thirty. While we were uninvolved in recent years, both of their deaths have had an impact on me. Life is too short not to know what it is we do what we do. The next time someone asks me this question, I want to have a good answer. I want to do something important, something with meaning. But, more importantly I don't want to have to question why it is I do what I do. I just want to know.