"Dispatch, I have a 10-100"

Anytime you go on the scene of a car accident you never know what you're going to find. Sometimes they're not as serious as you thought and other times they're 10-times worse than what you thought.

There are many things going on at an accident no matter the seriousness. From what I can tell the primary purpose when coppers and firefighters roll on scene is the safety of the victims. Second is getting traffic running smoothly again. That sometimes is a challenge as we all well know. How many of you have sat in traffic for hours then later creep by a vehicle that's rolled over into a ditch? Raise of hands?

Anyway, this was a head-on collision. Four people went to the hospital. No life threatening injuries. And it took about 45 minutes to get the accidents all cleared up. Maybe a little longer. Anyway, I was waiting for the officer on scene to give me the scoop.

After I got in his face a few times he promptly said he would be with me in a minute as did a speed-walk over to his squad car. When he pulled the handled and it didn't open he was about as shocked as I was. What copper locks his keys in his car?

It was rather funny to watch him struggle that second and half with the door. I guess that makes me a bad human-being.

He then went to his trunk and got out a tool that would help him jimmy his door open. Ah, the convenience of being a cop.

Well, after he took care of his "10-100" or "personal problem" he gave me scoop. We both pretended like the incident never happened.

I've seen a lot of things in this world but now I can say I've seen a copper jimmy his door. And let me tell you, it was hilarious.

The speech of the century

The President of the United States of America decided to take time out of his day to talk to the children of the nation. While the speech was greeted with some enthusiasm, there were many who greeted with apathy or disgust.

I mean, for crying out loud. I couldn't believe my ears when I was told by the administration that public schools had three options: one, not to broadcast it; two, broadcast it; and three, give students the option to leave the classroom if it was being shown.

Are you serious? Since when is a speech by the president dangerous? Don't get me wrong. There have been leaders in history who have brain-washed a nation. This clearly isn't the case. This speech was uplifting and meant to be motivational.

No matter what people think, having an education is important in this day and age. And for the most part I think people agree with that. At the same time I still know people who start college then don't go back because of money or jobs or whatever the case may be. In the end the majority of these individuals end up working dead-end jobs never reaching their full potential. Along with that, they never do what they truly want to do with their life.

So when Barry wants to tell the youth of nation to stay in school and when the going gets tough, get tough with the going, I'm not sure what people are so afraid of.

Parents need to look beyond the edge of their noses and put their politics aside. If they did, there would be more tolerance and less of a perpetuating cycle of closed-minded adults raising closed-minded children.

But remember the heart of the message. Stay in school.

Economic unrest stifle American people

It seems every story I write lately has something in the first paragraph with words like "stifling economy" or "struggling economy" or "economic distress."

And it doesn't matter the subject either. I could be writing about public education, higher education, public safety. Even the local municipals talk about economy.

Now I understand the economy is what makes our world go round but my goodness! I hate having to repeat myself! If it's getting old for me, it most certainly is getting old for our readers. I mean, what reader is going to want to pick up the paper or go to the Web site where all it continues to remind us of the economic distress we're experiencing in every aspect of our lives?

Granted, it's a good thing to know how a poor economy is violating and invading our lives because somehow, some way, there's got to be light at the end of this deep, dark tunnel, right?

So far, things have gone from bad to worse, then worse again. I don't know how that happens but apparently only in America when the going gets tough you can always make it 10 times worse.

As I talk to colleagues, friends and family they have continued to tell me we're pulling out, we just won't see it for another year, maybe two. Wow. I'm hopeful. Aren't you?

We're caught in this downward spiral where no one is spending because they're trying to scrape by to survive, and the American economy has very little to offer as far as goods and resources. We seem to continue to get more and more friendly with China, who I assume believes they have the once “greatest world power” in their back pocket.

That's a great place to be. So no matter what, we're still going to get sat upon at some point in the future. And that's going to hurt. Probably more than this recession.

Well goodnight, and good luck. It sounds like we are going to need it.

Fishies Plus Virgin River Equals Fun on the Job

To make up for the dead body fiasco, a few days ago I had the opportunity to go gallivanting off into the wilderness and play along the river beds of the Virgin River. I even got in the river. It was awesome. The best part was I got to do this for work. I was working on a story about the Division of Wildlife Resources.

In case you don't know or remember the "dead body fiasco" a quick recap would be a dead body was found last week. My photographer and I tried to get out to the scene but were given wrong directions. We missed the whole thing.

Now, as much as I love the adrenaline rush of a good wild fire or homicide, going off on adventures seems to be grabbing my fascination more and more. Why you might ask? Maybe it's because I don't have to deal with all the red tape that comes with the breaking news or the devastated families.

Anyway, back on the subject. This summer DWR had five high school interns helping them sample fish in the Virgin River. The purpose? I found it to be most fascinating. One was to find out how healthy the native wildlife was and two was to find out how healthy the river was. For some reason I never realized how important it was to sample the fishies. But there I was, taking notes in the river then shooting photos of the kids catching these fish.

But, the highlight of the day was when the biologist from DWR told me the rule among the interns was the biggest fish they found for the day they had to kiss it. We were out there for an hour and still all we were getting was 2-inch fish. But then popped up an 8-inch flannelmouth sucker fish. One of the girls took that fish, looked it dead in the eyes and laid a big one on it.

After two hours of playing in the river I reluctantly decided it was time to leave. When I got back to the office I had dirty river pants, farmer's tan and an awesome story to show for my work that morning.

Yes, I could get used to doing fun stories. It not only keeps the job entertaining but they make for good stories for not only print but for memories.

The Great Wild Goose Chase

My editor turned to me Friday afternoon and asked me if I had time to look into something for her. I said sure. But now, I kinda wish there would've been someone else she could've passed the tip to.

There was a dead body found out in the wilderness earlier that afternoon and she wanted me to chase down the facts. So, I started to chase. When I found out where the cops were headed to I decided to follow after them, bringing along a photographer. Great idea right? Yes! It was! But even great ideas seem to fall to pieces.

I was obviously in a hurry to get to the scene of the body where police have termed it a "suspicious death," when I get pulled over for speeding. It was all bad from the get-go. When going 65 in a 45, there's not much else you can do but admit your guilt, which I promptly did. My honesty unfortunately didn't get me out of my ticket and it slowed me down in getting to the dead body.

My photographer and I met up after some horrendous traffic and went out to find the scene. Following every direction that was given to us, we drove on rocky roads for a half hour. Finally we came to two trail heads. We checked on both of them and no one was to be seen.

My photographer and I finally decided to give up. We went back by the main road when we ran into a couple of men coming off the dirt road we were just on. They worked for Bureau of Land Management and they were at the scene! Come to find out, we were given wrong directions and was one turn off from our dead body scene.

My photographer ended up going out to the scene to snap some photos even though the body was gone and I headed back to the office. From a few phone calls and a press release, I was squeeze out a few short paragraphs. In return for all my efforts for "gallivanting" out into the wilderness was a nearly flat tire and a speeding ticket.

The thing is, I'm not mad that I went out there, I'm just mad I didn't get the story I wanted, all because of one little error in directions.

Stories, What's Your Flavor?

Different stories we write as reporters carry different meanings for us, at least I know for me they do. But each story, whether it be lame or spectacular, it takes a piece of you with it. I've come up with the basic breakdown of the scale of less-desired stories to the amazing stories you fight for.

Number one: The Boss Story.

The Boss Story is one that's assigned to you. There's no way of getting out of it and it's something you just have to suck up and do. Sometimes if you're lucky (and good) you can pawn it off on to someone else. I usually don't feel too bad when I do that because I myself have been the pawn victim and I've taken a lot of Boss Stories for the team.

Number two: The Event Story.

The Event Story I especially hate. You see, in cities and especially in small communities there is always some annually event. Especially in the small towns in Utah. We've got Cotton Days, Swiss Days, the county fair, a marathon and the list just goes on and on and on. And of course, although we've covered these events since the dawn of time we still have to be there, beginning to end, because of course, it's the biggest news in town. I hate Event Stories. Because after you've written them twice, you've got to figure out a way to spice it up and make the story interesting. If not, it's basically the same story that's been done for the past however many years we've been covering the event.

Number three: The Followup Story.

Ah, The Followup Story. Sometimes these stories turn into two or three or four followups. Sometimes they're good, sometimes they're bad. A lot of the time it has to deal with a breaking news story (which I'll talk about next) that we have to wait forever to get information back on. Other times it's a story you've written and a few months down the road you do another story to check up on it just to see how everything is doing.

Number four: The Breaking News Story.

A lot of the times these are my favorite stories. There is so much adrenaline involved because the story falls into your lap like a bomb, then you got to find ways to accurately tell the story as quickly as possible with the most information. It's a challenge, and most the time the stories aren't fun. But it this particular instance, I'd say it's more about the challenge of getting the story that makes these stories fun to write. Of course, you hate them on the days you don't want anything to fall out of the sky, but the news just doesn't happen that way.

Number five: The Bright Idea Story.

So many readers call in with a Bright Idea or a "scoop" or "scandal." Sometimes there really is something to the tips, other times there's nothing. It's very frustrating because on the stories you think are a bright idea you'll chase and there will be no light at the end of the tunnel. The story was a dud. And the scoops and scandals are turn out to be angry neighbors or wanna-be politicians who either want to get back at someone or just want a little ink space. So, the Bright Idea Story, not reliable.

Number six: The Enterprise Story.

These are the stories you take your time with, the end result is three or four stories that run making it a beautiful package. It's beautiful because you invested a lot of time into the story. You met the people. You know them, their problems and their successes. It's an accomplishment to finally see it in print. All the hard work has finally paid off and you have physical proof of it.

Number seven: My Baby Story.

Whether it be a story assigned to you or a story you found while working your beat, My Baby Story is the story you take under your wing and put everything you have into it. At the end of the day you think it's your best writing ever. Whether it's a good story or a bad story in reality, the public opinion usually doesn't matter, because you know how hard you worked on it and you know what it took to string the sentences together.

This is a very long explanation for what happened to me Thursday. You see, I encountered one of these said stories. It was a Boss Story, but also a Followup. It wasn't a bad story but the topic and how it was to be presented was tricky. I didn't want it to appear I was going on a witch hunt. I wanted to be fair and balanced. I told my editors this and I even told them I wasn't sure I wanted to write it. But of course they wanted the story.

I wrote it. It took me nearly an entire day to do it. I was staring at my computer screen till about 1 a.m. Friday morning. It was exhausting. But, I think I accomplished my goal and I think I made my editors happy at the same time.

How Much Are You Worth?

When I was a kid I asked my dad how much he would sell me for. To my amazement and outrage he said $100,000. But he reassured me that I was worth more than one of my brother's, who he said he would sell for $50,000.

Of course I know my dad was teasing, but in a story I had to write today, I was reminded of the memory.

In November a 15-year-old boy died. The .38 caliber hand gun was meant to be used only as a sound prop for the high school play the teen was participating in. One thing led to another and the next thing school staff and police knew they had a dead boy on their hands.

It was a tragedy. From what I can tell the family has suffered painfully through it. Who wouldn't? I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a sibling nor do I want to find out. I can't even begin to imagine how the parents must feel.

The family has decided to sue the police and school district for wrongful death. Reading over the claims, I can't tell you how many times I read the word "negligent." And what's the amount for? We're looking at more than $2 million.

Suing, especially in death cases, are so interesting to me because people have to put a dollar amount to their loss. But how do you put a dollar amount to the life of a child? When I think about it that way, $2 million just doesn't seem to be enough.

And why do people sue in the first place? Do they sue because wrong was truly done, or because they think they can get some money out of it? In this particular case I think wrong was done, but I think a $2 million hit to the school district and police department would not only be detrimental to those entities but also those involved with them. The schools would suffer and so would the streets.

As I look at this in the grand scheme of things and I wonder if it's worth it.

A person's life is priceless and unique. Once it's gone, it can never be brought back or replicated. No dollar amount can right the wrong of that boy's death. So how do we deal with it? I don't have that answer.

Receiving a Diploma Behind Bars

The actual accomplishment of receiving a high school diploma wasn't that big of a deal to me. It was just something I had to do. The day I completed high school and was given that piece of paper of completion was just another step closer to moving out of my mom's house and gaining freedom. At least that's what it was for me in my mind.

The inmates in Purgatory Correctional Facility have the opportunity to get a high school diploma or GED. Many of them take advantage of the adult education, and earlier this week I got to watch several men and one woman stand proudly in their caps and gowns as they received their high school diplomas.

Some of them were 18 years old. One man was 37. It didn't matter the age, each one was proud to pull the tassle from the right over to the left and be an official high school graduate.

While I was in the jail listening to the inmates' stories I couldn't help but respect their accomplishment and realize that a high school diploma or GED means much more than just a piece of paper or a means to get of your parents' house. Each one of those inmates worked hard to receive their diploma and they proudly received it.

Whether we realize it or not, a high school diploma or GED is the gateway to higher education. In most cases we can't move forward without accomplishing one of those.

Some of the people I talked to in jail that day have already had a lifetime of experience. They know how to work. But for one reason or another life's circumstances brought them to jail. One man said he'd been in jail 20 years of his life. But now they are making a change. They resolved to do something positive and do more than what they have done.

There's only one word I can think of when I think of these inmates, and that's respect. Some of them will still be in jail for another year and some don't know if they'll get out; they still might be institutionalized. It doesn't matter though. They've done something positive with their lives and it's another step forward.

Photo provided by Jud Burkett.

Hate is Never the Answer

Hate. It's been breeding, brewing, festering and exploding for centuries and centuries. Everyday when we turn on the television we're reminded of our differences. Today when I saw the breaking news I was stunned.

An 88-year-old male white supremacist is a suspect in the shooting and killing of Stephen Tyrone Johns, a member of staff security the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. As I listened to the news as it unfolded I couldn't help but feel shocked.

How could another man walk into a museum, at the age of 88 no less, and "allegedly" murder someone in cold blood? Where does such hatred come from? How, after so many years, can Hitler's doctrine still compel people to hate those who are different? I don't understand it and yet I've been so close to it.

Several years ago I remember visiting my brother at his home. I don't remember much about the visit but what I do remember is when I was leaving his room my eye caught a glimpse of what was hanging in his closet. When I did a double-take, I realized it was a Nazi flag.

He had been involved with white supremacists before, but I thought he was through. Unable to comprehend what I was seeing, I left and didn't mention a word. To this day it rips me up inside to think my brother, my flesh and blood, had so much hatred for another group of people.

My brother did finally get over being a white supremacist. I can't imagine it was easy and I can imagine it was a long and rocky road. But he is now one of the most accepting and loving people I know. I look up to him for his courage to stand strong and make a change in his life for the good.

Knowing so intimately the ugly side of white supremacy and knowing people can change, it hurts to listen, to watch and to read the news of an elderly man not willing to open his heart, but instead fill it with the poison of hate and act upon that hate.

Hate will kill your spirit. I watched it as it almost killed my brother's. But love, compassion, tolerance and understanding is what brought him back to life. It will take forgiveness and just as much love and compassion to help us, the 88-year-old man and the other white supremacists out in the world to become more tolerant of each other.

Hate does not cure hate, it only fuels it. Love allows a cure to be found.

Liar, Liar. Are Your Pants On Fire?

I'm an adrenaline junky at heart. I hate to admit it, but when I hear sirens my ears perk up and my heart beats just a little bit faster. Being on the police beat for nearly two years has fed that beast in me, but like all things there is always some bad mixed in with the good.

If you were to ask me what the good things were I'd tell you running out the door at the drop of the hat when I heard something "big" go down on the scanner. This good be anything - bank robbery, car accident, stand off, fire, mountain lion in a tree.

And even if it turned out to be nothing , it still got me out of the office, which is always a plus, except maybe when it's cold.

Now what were the bad things you may ask? No matter how tough a reporter thinks they are, death and destruction eventually pulls a little too hard at myheart strings. It was always painful trying to get a hold of family members and friends involved in tragedy and then asking them to talk about it. The only way I knew how to deal with it was to just not think about it.

Then of course we had those who would give all this information, but then wouldn't go on record. But at the end of the day what I think I hated the most while working the beat was trying to work with liars.

Case in point: I got tipped off on a pretty good story. When I confronted three, count them three different coppers, each one lied. The story goes cold.

Now this is why the public thinks we reporters get our facts wrong, because people lie and don't go on record. These problems are not just in the police beat. These problems are everywhere. A reporter has to sift through tons of garbage before they find the truth.

What I have found is when the truth does come out, occasionally the officials cover it up with another lie. Honestly, if people just told the truth everyone would be better off.

So here's an idea for everyone. Just be straight-up honest, even if it makes you look bad. That way us reporters can tell a fair and accurate story.

A Dark Day in History

The wind whipped across the sky as dark clouds rolled over the mountains. A couple hundred people were gathered in what seemed to be a not so special place. The grass was tall and itchy. The smell of stagnant water was carried on the air by the wind and random dried cow pies lay hidden in the grass.

Today was the day where men, women and children remembered those souls from a tragedy long since past; the Mountain Meadows Massacre.

I only knew bits and pieces of this part of history. I had the opportunity to be formally educated about the event by direct descendants of the victims from the Fancher-Baker wagon train from Arkansas and relatives to the Mormon frontier men who massacred them.

All in all, it's a terrible dark day in history. I understand now why Mormons don't like talking about it. The day at the memorial reflected the mood of the event.

When I showed up with my friend and photographer, Chris, it was sunny. There was a slight breeze but nothing to complain about. People were mingling and enjoying being together.

When the program began the day steadily grew darker, more dreary, more windy, more cold. The feeling from the present company was solemn, yet understanding, and united in a strange way. Whether they were descendants from Arkansas or the Mormon frontier men, everyone was united in one cause, to honor those who lost their lives and to never forget it.

For 152 years the descendants from Arkansas have let the pain of the massacre fester and grow into a hatred, while the Mormons spent those years trying to bury and forget it. From what I can tell, it's only been in the past decade and a half the two groups have united in the common effort to let those murdered in cold blood be remembered and get the memory throughout the years they deserve.

And I say, what took so long?

To Err is Human

To be a journalist, it takes more than having a love of writing and talking to interesting people. With all the ups, like with any profession, there are some downs. Keep in mind, I love my job. I

wouldn't trade it for anything. That doesn't mean there aren't days I don't want to tear my eyes out.

For some reason if you're a journalist, I have found, the public doesn't think you're human. It's probably because all they see is a name and a story. So since they don't think you're human, people can't BELIEVE when you make an error.

STOP THE PRESS! We have a journalist who's human and makes mistakes? That's front page news if you ask me.

I vent this to you because I want to write for the record that I am human and the past couple days at work have been horrendous because I made mistakes that I let slip through my fingers.

I wrote a story about a city's budget and how the community center they built is $1 million in a deficit. I misquoted the city manager in regard to the city budget general fund and the role it played with the community center. I don't really have an explanation for my mistake except I didn't read the story before I
sent it off to be copy-edited. When the assistant to city manager called me and related the mistake to me, I apologized and told her I would make a correction. Of course I got nothing but a condescending attitude from her. Why do people who are employed by cities think
they're so much better? And why do they think and expect me to be perfect?

Of course I know journalists are held to a higher standard of accuracy, but when mistakes do happen. When they do, is it really necessary to be condescending and rude? Really?

There were a couple other indiscretions this week that hit the stands. They were small, but big enough to aggravate the public. As a journalist you have to learn to let the meanness of people just roll off your back, because if you hold on to it, you'll never be productive.

The Fight Against Domestic Violence

While working on the public safety beat I found there were certain topics I really enjoyed writing about. One of the many was domestic violence.

Of course domestic violence isn't a necessarily uplifting topic, and usually the stories that go with that subject are horrifying and sad. That's not why I liked writing about it.

When I wrote about domestic violence it made me feel in a small way I was providing justice to the victims and punishing the perpetrators. By bringing the shameful crime out from behind its closed doors and bringing it to paper and ink I felt I was doing something good, providing a service no police officer could. I was, at least I hoped, educating masses about the ugliness of domestic violence.

Anyway, since I've been off the public safety beat I haven't had to deal with the monsters of society, which to be honest is kind of nice. But I have to confess I do sometimes miss the blackness.

On Tuesday I was at a work session for city council. Two women approached the council entreating them to support them in obtaining a grant to get 24 apartments in able to house women and their children who were victims of domestic violence. I was amazed to see the overwhelming support of the council, and so were the two women. I wrote a story about the request which ran in today's paper.

It always amazes me the power, conviction and passion women have, especially when it comes to fighting against domestic violence. It also astounds me the number of people who turn a blind eye to the issue.

I hope these two women can get their apartments for their cause. More people like them are needed in the war against domestic violence.

How we remember

As a kid growing up in Hawai'i Memorial Day didn't mean much to me. Throughout my teenage years the day was always portrayed to be a holiday where everybody had barbecues, went to the lake or beach and just got out of town.

It wasn't until I was an adult that I began to realize the sanctity of the day.

It was in 2007 that I covered my first Memorial Day. My assignment was to go to the city cemetery where a presentation was planned to be put on by a group of veterans. Not expecting anything spectacular I decided this was going to be a "quick and dirty" assignment. Just get in and get out.

First was the presentation of the colors, then of course the Pledge of Allegiance and then I think for the first time I heard a veteran play "Taps" on the bugle. On an assignment I hoped to breeze through, changed in an instant. The somber sounds moved me nearly to tears.

Listening to those vets as they told their stories made me realize how lucky I was to live in this country and how I stood on hallowed ground where so many brave soldiers were buried at that very cemetery.

Before this experience I've had the opportunity to speak to soldiers from wars past. Some of their stories have literally brought tears to my eyes. And as I reflect now on this Memorial Day I can say that I'm not glad I have the day off because it's a chance to hit the lake or get out of town. I'm glad I have this day off to observe this hallowed, sacred day for those men and women who have served our country and those who have long since died to protect our freedom.

Graduations

The past three days I've been doing nothing but attending graduations. There are seven high schools in our school district and we had to divide that up between four reporters. Lucky me, I got to cover three of them.

After attending so many of these commencements it really starts to get boring, but yesterday I had the chance to cover the graduation of the alternative high school in our county. You know, the school where people throw the "unmanageable kids."

That's all a crock. Those 70 kids who graduated Thursday night are amazing. They are truly worthy to wear those caps and gowns, worthy to accept those diplomas and ready to move into the next stage of their lives.

It's true each one of those graduates has his or her own story; their struggles they had to overcome. One girl was nine-months pregnant when she accepted her diploma. One graduate started with only 10 credits. Another graduate said she will be the first in her family to ever graduate.

These graduates fought for their education. They didn't skate through it. These graduates have had to deal with the struggles that were placed before them or that they've placed before themselves, and turned out on top.

I have a story about this graduation on The Spectrum's Web site and a blog about graduations.
Photo was taken by Christopher Onstott.

Pseudo Bomb/Terrorist Threat

There was a pseudo bomb/terrorist threat made against a nice hotel here in town a couple days ago. Since it is my job to find out what happened, I called the hotel and asked for the general manager. After Mr. Manager gave his statement, he paused and then asked me the most ridiculous question. "This isn't going in the paper is it?"

I have been asked this question many times. What I don't understand is, when people know they're talking to a reporter about a specific event, why else would we want all the details? Maybe to feed our sick need of wanting to know? Maybe it's because we have nothing to write about and we just call people to get information and not write about it. COME ON!

But that wasn't even the best part of all of this. Since this was a "touchy subject" being a pseudo bomb/terrorist threat and all, and since this was a nice hotel, Mr. Manager put me on speaker so a woman could tell me that I'm "not allowed to write about this."

"Excuse me?" Was my reply. I sternly informed this woman she couldn't give or not give permission for me to write my story. It's public record and if she wanted an accurate story she better let me use Mr. Manager's comments.

In the end Mr. Manager spoke to my editor and I got my comments for a my brief. Sometimes you have to jump through a lot hoops to get a story. Sometimes they're necessary, sometimes they're not. This time they were absolutely ridiculous.

Burr

When I got to work today at the bright early hour of 10 a.m. I felt like an ice-cold wind rushed right through me as I opened the door to the office. You see, in St. George it gets hot, REALLY hot. Today we broke 100 degrees. So of course air conditioning is absolutely necessary and absolutely appreciated.

What I don't appreciate is when "the powers that be" keep the office at an ice-box temperature. How do they expect me to function in that kind of environment? I keep a jacket at the office all sumer long to fight off frost bite and take regular trips outside to defrost in the blazing heat. 

The first summer I was at this office, I entreated the IT guy to assist me in my plight, and get the temperature turned up a few notches. Come to find out the thermostat is locked in a plastic box which is nailed to the wall. I don't know who can get there, the IT guy doesn't know and it seems I haven't been able to find anyone who knows how to control the temperature in the office.

So here I am into my third summer. I have the features editor in a sweater, my editor with a space heater under his desk and coworker around the corner from me wrapped in a blanket. Yep. This is going to be another chilly summer.

What Do Women REALLY Want?

So for probably the third time now I've covered this event called the What Women Want Expo. I guess I wouldn't mind covering it so much except it's put on by the newspaper that I work for as a moneymaker. I feel, in a way, dirty every time I go, come back and write a story that is totally PR.

Like I said, dirty.

Anyway, although this expo is a moneymaker, it has some cool things and to the company's credit; it does try to give back to the community. Yet I had a problem because I would say a lot of the booths were just jewelry. It was a variety of jewelry but still, just jewelry. Honestly, do women really only want look for the bling when they shop?

Next to the bling of course were the smelly good lotions and of course all the booths dedicated to beauty.

Then we had the booths that really made me mad; the vendors advertising cleaning products like mops, vacuums and such. Who let those guys in?! I thought the expo was for women, not men. I felt I had stepped back a few decades into the 1950s.

However, my favorite booth was a vendor advertising obedience training for dogs. I thought that was pretty awesome. If anything, every woman needs a well-behaved pet, because God certainly knows us ladies can't get our men trained to do even simple tricks - but I'm sure they feel the same about us.

Anyway, my award-winning story on What Women Want will be on line tomorrow.

The Randomness at City Council

I walked into the city council chambers this evening to find the chambers nearly empty and all the council members staring at me. I must admit I felt slightly awkward.

We progressed into small talk and the reason for the stare-down unfolded, they were unhappy with the coverage (or lack thereof) during the city's week-long celebration of its founding.

"I could go into a long dissertation as to why I didn't come out, " replied with a certain about of sarcasm. "I could tell you it's because I'm stretched too thin, I cover the college, the school district and dabble in the police beat."

What's a girl to do?

After a few of the council members had their fun watching watching me be uncomfortable, one of them decided to come down from the high chair and mic, and share a piece of her life with me.

I must say this was a bit strange, to see the city councilwoman turn into proud grandma minutes before the meeting, then back to councilwoman.

Talk about random.

Anyway, the councilwoman felt compelled to show five or six photos of her 5-year-old granddaughter dressed in an elaborate costume for a "twinkle-toe recital."

The kid was cute, and it was fun to see the councilwoman so proud.

Just before I thought the meeting couldn't get any more random, the city manager decided to try and make me feel guilty.

"You have my cell phone number, I need yours. Alyson gave me hers and Rachel before that," he said.

I hate when people try to guilt me into doing things, even in jest. So his remarks invoked a bit of a defiant response.

"You're trying to guilt me, sorry, it's not working."

Well, the mayor finally decided to start the meeting, 5:30 p.m. on the dot. And of course one of the first things from his lips is some award the city received.

Can you believe they award people with ingenuity in logos? I figured that was more for advertisers, but apparently this city struck the fancy of the state, along with its logo.

By the end of the meeting I was ready to go back to my office and write a riveting story on the city council, and council members wandered off into executive session. It's definitely on of the more random meetings I've been in.

And yes, we all exchanged cell phone numbers.