Random unsolicited writing tips

Consider the finest piece of writing you've ever produced, and you will likely remember the fervor and emotion that motivated you to write it in the first place.

The more connected a writer feels with the story, the better the story - and the easier it is to produce a compelling combination of words.

To make the flow consistent, you just write. Write whatever comes to mind, and write it with a particular reader in mind. Think of someone you trust, for example.

This setup takes practice. The best suggestion is to devote a daily window of time to writing. The trick is to write like no one will read it. That's how you tap the honesty. People are typically polite to strangers when we talk, but if you write with this voice in mind, the purity of your message will suffer.

The more honest and authentic your message, the deeper the connection with readers.

Let's get back to the daily writing routine. You need one if you want to call yourself a writer, just like you could say you're in tip-top shape if you lift weights at the gym every day. Writing requires a certain mental muscle that must be trained. No one will train that muscle for you.

You must be your own sensei and make writing a habit. Once a behavior becomes a habit, it is harder to stop. Every minute you sit in front of the television is a minute you let that muscle get flabby.

Also, please stop being self-conscious about your background and whether that qualifies you as a writer. I have worked with journalists who studied philosophy and history in college. I have worked alongside journalists who were once union plumbers and paralegals.

Writing is about work. Those words don't put themselves together into sentences. Part of your training must include reading. Diverse reading material will only enrich what you're writing, but you need to read for pleasure daily, whether a novel or the newspaper.

Here are some unsolicited suggestions for writing a persuasive essay: 

1. Leave yourself out of it. Your name on the essay is plenty. The more you talk about yourself in the column, the more the reader focuses on the messenger instead of the message.

2. You want the reader to agree with you from the start. However, you and the reader need to agree that the status quo needs to change. Then you present your idea and close the deal.

3. Save one "gift" for your reader at the end. This is the "ah-ha" that captures the essence of your message and the energy behind it.

3 odd journalism tales - unedited for your pleasure

Ghost sex in the suburbs

Nobody could make up a story this strange: a woman believed that her apartment was full of ghosts, and the ghosts had been raping her repeatedly.

The paper ran a police blotter every week, and one simple two-paragraph item had the headline "Two women report ghost has been having sex with them."

By the end of the week, the headline had reached Jay Leno's monologue. You see a lot of odd reports in the police log, and the ghost sex item was just one more.

The woman who made these claims later dropped by the office. She said her apartment was haunted by the supernatural - and she had proof.

At first, I saw an opportunity for another weird headline. I didn't make the ghost sex connection until she invited me inside the apartment and the interview unfolded. Also, she said the "ghost sex" headline was about her.

This older senior-age black woman had documentation of the ghost encounters - graphic journal entries, Polaroid photos of a blank TV screen, etc. Her apartment was stuffed with religious knick-knacks and imagery.

She pointed to marks on the wall and ceiling that were created by the ghosts. She showed me the bathroom, where the ghosts allegedly rape her every night. She demonstrated by grabbing a towel rack and rocking back and forth. "See that? They're on me." She also re-enacted phone conversations full of profanity and even took me to her neighbor's apartment, where a non-English-speaking woman from Eastern Europe nodded along to the ghost sex lady's declarations.

I made a video of the visit and spliced interviews with shots of her apartment. My former company refused to let us post it. The webmaster said the video poked fun at this woman and would surely go viral. I admit to editing together the strangest moments, but there were a lot more strange moments than "normal" ones. Even the most flattering video about her ghost problem would have been sensational.

The video was posted temporarily on YouTube. In those few hours the video was online, a lone viewer left a serious comment ... saying she had experienced a similar encounter with ghosts.

Marijuanalyn Monroe

A medical marijuana dispensary owner was on the brink of punching me in the face because the story didn't make him look like a medical marijuana savior.

The dispensaries already operated in a legal gray area. The city had banned these businesses, citing federal law, and refused to issue a permit to the dispensary owner. In the story, the owner was candid about his goals of making cash in the green rush and had no plans to shut down.

Anyway, after the story ran, the owner called. He was furious over a cop's quote about complaints from neighbors near the dispensary over activity like selling and smoking weed.

I agreed to meet up again with the owner, who within seconds was shouting in my face. A posse of big black men watched from a few feet away. One guy filmed the encounter as the dispensary owner recited a prepared statement full of legal disclaimers.

The owner ended up leaving town shortly afterward and opened a few medical pot places in Seattle. Fast forward two years, and he was sentenced to prison for drug trafficking.

Mad mad mayor

It was the November election night in a former city I covered. Candidates had gathered in restaurants and businesses to wait for the results.

That year was a roller-coaster ride for the usually inert bedroom community. Not only were the crime stats on the rise, but the city had experienced its worst shooting in history after a gunman went on a rampage at an apartment complex earlier in the year.

The mayor race was at the center of local political drama, highlighted by reports of the mayor's anger problems. Everything was personal with the mayor, a longtime politician who usually came across as an "aw shucks" Jimmy Stewart good old boy. He was best known for serving in the state Legislature. He was also known, at least among adversaries, as thin-skinned and pompous.

Long story short, the mayor was running for re-election and hated the newspaper. The hatred ran back to the previous mayoral election, in which the paper endorsed his opponent. Since then, the columnists poked the mayor relentlessly for glossing over problems, and the reporters held him accountable.

Behind the scenes, the mayor retaliated by trying to switch publication of the city's legal ads to a different newspaper in the region. If approved, our break-even paper would have lost thousand of dollars a year - enough for an employee, and we were already a skeleton crew.

The mayor also refused to advertise in his city's paper during the election, while his opponent bought full-page ads and hammered home an alternative message. Around town, the mayor's snide remark was often quoted as "nobody reads the paper."

As usual, I covered the election night parties to capture the reactions of winners and losers. Many of these gatherings are at local pubs and coffee shops, with everyone hovering around a laptop when the results are announced.

On that election night, I was at the opponent's party when the results were posted on a big screen - and showed him crushing the mayor by double digits. I attended two other election parties to get quotes from council winners, and saved the mayor's party for last - because the story needed his comment.

I knew I was walking into the lion's den. Never in my life had I felt so many angry and icy stares concentrated on me all at once. One councilwoman chewed me out about the paper's coverage and blamed the paper for the mayor's loss.

As I reached the back of the room, the mayor grabbed my shoulders, shook me and shouted "You won!" right in my face. I snapped back that he needed to comment on whether he was conceding the race.

After another non-committal answer, he lectured me on integrity in journalism while his wife bared her teeth and screamed the worst things she could say about my journalism career. The soon-to-be-former first couple stormed out of the bar, leaving his minions to gnaw on me for a bit. Of course, none of this action made it into that night's report, but word spread about the confrontation.

I soon left that paper for another. People have said the former mayor blames the newspaper for ending his political career - the same newspaper that nobody reads.

Bad Religion beat Al Gore to the punch

Downloaded without permission, of course.

Bad Religion is a punk rock band that has been warning us about the environment long before Al Gore started gabbing around the globe.

In fairness, Mr. Gore cemented an important message in everyone's brain, whether they liked it or not.

However, Bad Religion reached me first and made a stronger impression. Years earlier, on a smaller platform, the band pleaded the people to save the planet from themselves while rocking their faces off.

A favorite is "Watch it Die" from 1993's Recipe for Hate, especially the last verse, which sums up the Earth's fate as man conquers nature:

I was born on planet Earth

At a drastic time full of plastic mirth

And every day, I've seen increasing signs

And you would too, if you opened your eyes

You had your chance, you did not try

And now it's time to watch it die.

I recently learned that Eddie Vedder sang the second verse of "Watch it Die." The two singers' voices sound similar even with careful listening, although you can catch a few flutters of Eddie's signature resonance.

I dusted off a couple of discs and was blown away by the profundity of the lyrics, which I knew by heart as a teenager. As I have discovered, or perhaps rediscovered, Bad Religion is a punk rock band that had an impact on my worldview.

Bad Religion, Against the Grain (1990)

But at the time, did I really know what Greg Graffin was singing about? Nowhere near the depth that I do as an adult who works for a living and watches the world turn. Graffin eventually went on to earn a Ph.D. and teaches at Cornell University.

Graffin's songs for Bad Religion are equal parts punk and poetic professor. Never would I have encountered the some of the topics he presents, such as the philosophical "Misery and Famine" from Against the Grain (1990):

Misery and famine, it's a force we cannot see

Misery and famine, don't allow complacency

Misery and famine, great ellipse we bend to thee

Misery and famine, it compels us naturally.

Songs like "Entropy" sounded like a science essay delivered by a pissed off lounge singer for a garage band with the gas pedal floored - and yet the package and all the precise moving parts are catchy if you can keep up: "Something in our synapses assures us we're OK, but in our disequilibrium, we simply cannot stay, it's entropy ... "

Bad Religion also motivated me to look up the word entropy in the dictionary, which defines entropy as "a degree of disorder or uncertainty in a system," although the main part of the definition had something to do with thermodynamics.

Like many corn-fed kids from small towns in the middle of America's Heartland, I discovered Bad Religion when their major label fed me the band's 1996 album Stranger Than Fiction. "Infected" and "Handshake" stand among the band's best.

I saw them in 1996 at the Riviera in Chicago. I was 17 and had never been to a club show like that. I bought a shirt that listed a bunch of songs together in a paragraph with no spaces, and one of the songs was "Fuck Armageddon, This is Hell." You had to look for the four-letter word, and yes, I wore it to school once.

At the show, my virgin ears were blasted with glorious power chords and Graffin's sociopolitical messages. A concertgoer near me knew every word to "Handshake" and shouted along. Here's a clip from 1996 (the subtitles are kind of cool):

"This is the way of the modern world, and something's gotta give"

Cumulative powers

I believe in the cumulative power of actions, whether positive or negative. The more consistently you do something, the more experienced and efficient you become at that activity. It can be a consistent activity like exercise, for example, where the muscles grow and fat melts, gradually but surely.

On the other end of the spectrum, we can talk about snacking every night and leaving crumbs all over the floor and counters, you sloppy bastard. Over time, those crumbs build up, calories accumulate, love handles jiggle and stairs take your breath away.

Exercise and weight gain aside, we see the cumulative power of actions in the workplace and our personal lives. It goes without saying that the more you put into your marriage or personal relationships, the more you gain as a participant.

I was thinking the other day about a professional hurdle at my last job - management. That's something they don't teach in journalism school. I had my share of failures in that department, and those failures added up to a master class.

Management requires a cumulative approach. Day by day, you shape the staff to follow your direction. Most of the time, they already know the road map. Managers must connect with staff on a deeper level, and it can be done without being all buddy-buddy. Employees who are not in charge will always look for the person in charge. They want to follow a leader and will be receptive to a leader's vision if trusted to follow autonomously.

In simpler terms: Either you're on the bus, or your not. If everyone's on the bus, then you're golden. In order to get everyone on the bus, a manager must accumulate trust and compliance over a period of time. Think of each interaction with the staff as a coin in a jar. How long before the jar is full - and it's time for another?

Legend of the Potted Meat

An example of potted meat.

What you are about to read is true and may contain subject matter for a mature audience. This story is about Brian and Eric, two Indiana college students who smeared food all over each other.

Shortly after I moved into the house on Jefferson Street, my grandmother sent a package full of snacks and cookies. And on some random night when the munchies struck, we mined the box for leftovers. We found a pack of microwave popcorn and a few cans of potted meat.

What is potted meat? Some people spread this shit on crackers. I hadn't met anyone who ate it until I met Brian and Eric. At one point, Brian squeezed the can and slurped a chunk of potted meat that had risen up like a muffin made of Spam.

Next thing you know, they were flinging this slime at each other. There was potted meat on their faces, the floor, the chairs, the walls, everywhere. We clutched our torsos in laughter when Eric dashed downstairs to the showers. His towel was stolen, so he covered up with a couch cushion as he headed back upstairs in front of a hall full of women. When he entered his room, Eric was pelted with a fresh glob of potted meat.

For the next year or so, they found reminders of this potted meat splatterfest - flecks and chunks of dried processed animal guts beneath the couch cushions, for example, or stuck to a lamp.

In the years since they covered each other in potted meat, Brian and Eric have grown to become productive members of society. Brian teaches gifted children and Eric leads a charity. They married awesome women.

For me, they redefined potted meat.

I tell this tale of a trivial moment because this trivial moment captures the spirit of those times as I see them. We remember the potted meat fight not just for its novelty, but for the essence of brotherhood and the atmosphere of self-discovery that inspired the fun.

We also remember Eric's muscular pecs and six-pack abs, along with Brian's footlong ponytail and rock-hard gluteal region. But that's a "true" story for another time...

Born on Father's Day

I was born June 17, 1978, which was also Father's Day.

My father was, and has been, absent from my life. I have fleeting memories of good times, and I shudder at thoughts of the rough times.

My father and I never bonded. He was a military man who was always gone. For a while, he was stationed in West Germany. As a kid, I found two photos of him, and in both, he wore those classic green combat fatigues. In one photo, he stood in the woods, stoic but young, a helmet on his head. In the other, he guarded the East-West Germany border, the Deutschland colors striped on a pole next to my father's folded arms.

Speaking of his arms, there was a U.S. Marine globe tattooed in green on his left forearm. All these years later, and I still remember watching the tattoo ripple on his forearm while he tightened his bootlaces.

I don't want to make my father sound like a hero. My parents' marriage ended about 10 years after I came along. With my father out of the house, our domestic turmoil was much more tolerable. Lost in the storm was a chance to mend and bond anew. Our estrangement makes sense. I am at peace about it.

About 10 years ago, I contacted him after an eight-year silence. I had last seen him at my high school graduation. We met in the gym after everyone had tossed their caps and left to party. I paid a speeding ticket with the money he gave me. Eventually, in my mid-twenties, I wanted to know more about the past. I had questions about the man who contributed half my DNA.

For a while, I felt relief and clarity - it felt like finding a flashlight in a dark room. I finally saw both sides of the story of my parents' marriage.

And for those readers whose parents stayed married, please know that the children of divorce wanted what you had. I specifically remember a short-lived fling my mother had with an Italian guy who was struggling in his own marriage. Euphoric over the sight of them holding hands on a post-dinner walk, my sister and I bought them cards about love and weddings - or maybe it was for Valentine's Day? Doesn't matter now. For a few months, we learned what a healthy a family unit felt like. Everyone was safe, and everyone belonged.

When my first son was born in 2006, I called and shared the news with my father. We even visited his trailer for a few hours during a winter visit a few months later. He gave us a bottle of Knob Creek, wrapped with a bow.

In those first months of parenthood, the volume of life was cranked to 11. During that time, I wondered how my father could have been so absent when I was head over heels in love with my child, my wife and my life. It's one thing to get married, but when you reproduce, you create a family. That child feels like your own flesh and blood. The child is the part of you that lives on.

I closed the door on my father, not out of hatred, but for the sake of closure. Nothing unpleasant took place, and I harbor no hatred. As a wise man said, the opposite of love isn't hatred - it's indifference. I decided that building a relationship wasn't worth the energy.

In 2014, I am a father of two boys, ages 7 and 3. All I wanted for Father's Day was to hang out with my lovely wife and our two "B's." I got to sleep in. We walked to the coffee shop for a cinnamon roll coated in silk-sweet icing. We played games at a mini-arcade and won a bunch of cheap toys that broke by day's end. We ate pho noodles for lunch and pancakes for dinner before wrapping up with the daily bedtime rituals.

At the end of this wonderful day, I am heavy-hearted and introspective, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Nagging at my attention is the thought of knowing my father is out there, and wondering whether he's thinking about me. Every day is Father's Day in my house. Why wasn't it the same with him?

My sweet old animal house

My freshman year, I moved into the Lambda Chi Alpha house in Franklin, Indiana. The fraternity house - which was once a stop on the Underground Railroad - was in a residential neighborhood, one block from the Franklin College campus.

The historic house had six bedrooms, two bathrooms, one sofa on the front porch, no kitchen and parking for 15. After one particularly wild party that spring, the neighbors wanted us gone. Can't blame them. The Franklin mayor said we acted like a bunch of animals. The reaction led to a front-page story in the campus newspaper with the headline "Animal house?"

That's me, third from the right.

The way I remember it (through a foggy haze of chemicals), the party swelled to crazy proportions - bigger than anything we had hosted. It felt like the whole college was there. Drunk college students packed the main room and shook the floor as the stereo piped Spice Girls and mid-90s hip-hop. Outside, people peed on the fence and smoked weed. The problems reached a peak when a fight broke out among drunk country boys. Next thing you know, nearly a dozen people were beating each other's asses on the back deck. The cops were called, people were arrested, etc.

A little more than a year later, we moved to a new house: a converted dorm on the campus edge, right next to Tau Kappa Epsilon ("Tekes"). Everyone had more space, and the new house was in much better condition. There was a front lawn with a sand volleyball pit. During our first year in the new house, the fraternity's numbers doubled.

By gaining a new house, we gave up a place with character - and a place that built character. I was part of a large class of new members, and spent my first two years at the old house. Seems like the fondest college memories came from that stretch. Aside from a few months in the freshman dorm on campus, the old house was the first place I had lived away from home.

That first year - the year we were dubbed "Animal House" - was fairly quiet at the start. Not long before the crazy party, a handful of us were sitting around, wasting time and watching TV. Somehow the boredom progressed to hitting an old couch with a miniature wooden Louisville Slugger baseball bat. The bat belonged to a former member named Thor, who had crossed out "Louisville" to make it say "Lambda Chi Slugger."

So we kept slugging the hell out of this old couch, sending dust plumes and laughter into the room with each whack. That progressed to a more exciting idea: throwing the couch off the roof. Maybe someone wanted a faster way to move it downstairs?

One of the rooms had a door that accessed a small porch on the rooftop. Many people had passed out on the roof during parties - myself included - and miraculously, no one ever rolled off the roof.

With someone each holding a corner, we swung the couch, counted to three while gaining momentum, and let it fly. The couch soared from the second story in slow motion. It smacked the gravel driveway below, all four legs at the same time, and settled with a bounce. We clutched our guts and cackled ourselves red.

When we left the old house, that couch was still inside, tucked in a corner on the first floor.

Coffee Mug Theory

There was a song my elementary band teacher sang that went something like, "I'm a fine musician, I practice every day."

Anyone who plays an instrument knows the value of practice - that routine, that repetition, syncing the memory circuits with motor skills. You can practice thousands of hours over a lifetime, yet perfection is forever elusive.

I tried the whole rock band project in my 20s, and it's hard work. In the words of AC/DC, it's a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll.

Just like music, writing requires self-discipline in a relentless pursuit of improving the craft. In my day job as a newspaper reporter, I produce one or two stories per day. The more you write, the more automatic the muscle works.

I am itching to write more fiction in the evenings and resume the routine I had established in 2012-2013 when writing "Walter's Searchlight." However, the news writing muscle flexes much differently than fiction muscles - and my fiction muscles are downright flabby.

For another perspective on writing, let's digress a moment and consider the functional shape of a standard coffee mug. The mug is a vessel for hot liquid, and the handle belongs on the side of the mug so that you can hold the fucking thing while drinking.

If you were crafting a coffee mug, you wouldn't put the handle on the bottom or carve jagged edges around the rim. You would make a mug that allowed a human to drink from it, over and over.

Those who make enough mugs for enough years will be master mug makers.  If you can paint that functional coffee mug with green witches and mold a wart-covered handle, even better. Go ahead and dress up that mug. But if a person can't drink from the mug, then it is useless.

Which brings us back to writing. At its core, writing is the functional coffee mug that holds a message inside. That message might be a mind-blowing truth about the human condition. But if the reader can't consume the message, then it's time to make a new mug.

The same applies to music. Successful songs follow a formula because that blueprint is functional to an audience's enjoyment - and understanding - of the songs. A hit single has a hook and a catchy sing-along chorus. Without a hook and a catchy chorus, what do you have? Certainly not a functional vessel for delivering a musical message.

From music to writing to coffee mugs, it's all a matter of personal taste. But at the very core, these three things are vessels that carry something to consume. Build a solid vessel for your messages.

Meet the Mormons

Two young Mormon women in long dresses approached me in the driveway and complimented my VW bus.

I had just arrived home from work, and was hauling the trash cans back to their spot by the open garage, where the mustard-yellow camper lives. The women knocked on the neighbor's door before making their way to me. Their innocent baby faces twinkled from lack of sin. I was curious about their sales pitch, just to see how they'd do it.

"I like your bus," the tall blonde said first, disarming me with her smile.

They introduced themselves as missionaries, then skipped all the bullshit and went for the jugular with Jesus questions. When they walked away, I was holding a business card with links to a video. The women encouraged me to watch the video and said there were thought-provoking points on the link between Jesus and the Berlin Wall, for example.

On one side of the business card, there were three photos of people, each with a caption that said "I'm a Mormon." One of the humans pictured on the card was a black man, which contradicts the Mormon stereotype.

The missionaries impressed me with their confidence and kindness. They are trying to plant seeds - or perhaps hunt for souls? They wouldn't go door to door if the technique didn't work once in a while.

I discussed the surprisingly pleasant encounter with my wife, then tossed the card in the garbage.

Too hot to handle

I recently stepped a few million Scoville Units over the line and lived to tell about it.

I am a spice hound, chili fiend, habanero whore - whatever you want to call someone who likes food with a kick. I often tell the story of a Mexican restaurant in Arizona where the salsa was so hot, you left with a buzz.

Last weekend, I finally found my limit. At a novelty shop in Leavenworth, my sister and I ignored the warnings that were displayed next to a shot glass full of blood-red ass-kicking fire sauce. We nonchalantly dunked our pretzel twigs and chomped away. Within seconds, we had hiccups, tears and runny noses. We gulped water, gnawed on soft pretzels and wished we could take back the bullet.

About 15 minutes later, life returned to normal. I don't remember the sauce's brand, but it was a bottle of pure pain. I recall reading "6 million Scoville Units" on the label. Below is chart I stole off Google Images that illustrates a pepper's heat:

That's right. Those 6 million Scoville Units are akin to pepper spray, and all I ate was a few drops of that sauce. I have watched plenty of Travel Channel shows like "Man v. Food," in which the host eats the world's hottest wings, chicken curry, barbecue pork sandwiches, habanero fritters and more. In one episode, the host moaned and writhed in an alley with a jug of milk, and he wasn't acting for the cameras. No longer will I make fun of that host for quitting during a challenge or crying like a baby afterward.

The next George Carlin

"There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls." -- George Carlin

George Carlin left one big-ass footprint. His philosophy and observations about the human condition were gut-busting and spot on. Carlin played with the language like a toy. I always loved how he made fun of euphemisms and political correctness.

As I watched the most recent "Saturday Night Live," I saw the next George Carlin. That would be Louis C.K., who was hosting last weekend's episode. His monologue ventured into religion and walk-the-line territory that only Carlin could have touched - and still came across as funny.

So today, I chatted up an old hippie lady at the farmers market. She asked if I liked Bill Maher, and eventually she mentioned George Carlin. Then without prompting, she said Louis C.K. was the next George Carlin.

Carlin embodied that rebellious counterculture attitude. He could even be a godfather for libertarianism - so thick was his disdain for government and The Man.

If anyone can do it like Carlin, it's Louis C.K. I'm already a believer.

For the Deadheads

I am a proud fan of the Grateful Dead, thanks to my college roommates. The band's hippie vibe isn't for everyone. However, I admire their eclectic and creative approach to rock and Americana. Nobody else sounds like the Dead. There is no sex or violence in their music. Just peace and love (and drugs).

So, without further adieu, here are a handful of my favorite Dead tracks.

"Scarlet Begonias" - This is such a happy carnival of a song. The lyrics describe a random encounter, presumably at a hippie gathering, with an unknown woman with flowers in her hair. She had "rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes. And I knew without asking, she was into the blues." This song has so many lyrical gems. Best line: "Once in a while you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right." I must confess: One of my favorite recordings of this song was done by Bruce Hornsby, who toured with the band for a few years in the 1990s.

"Althea" - The groove carries along this conversation about a conversation with Althea. I'm not really sure what the lyrics are going for, but they suit Jerry Garcia as a bachelor.

"Tennessee Jed" - Gotta love the rhyming couplets about Jed, who is out of his element anywhere outside Tennessee. "I woke up, feeling mean, went down to play the slot machine. The numbers turned around and they said, 'you better head back to Tennessee, Jed." Bruce Hornsby does a great version of this song too.

"Cassidy" - This ode to beat icon Neal Cassady (yes, different spelling from title, which was coined after a friend's daughter) is one of guitarist Bob Weir's best songs with the band. The song builds and soars to the chorus about a freewheeling spirit who was born to be what he became.

"He's Gone" - I like the version on "Europe '72." Only recently did I learn that this song is an ode to the band's former manager who ripped them off. Aside from the mellow-but-melancholy pace, this song is chock full of interesting one-liners about a sneaky guy: "Rat in a drain ditch, caught on a limb, you know better but I know him" and "Nine-mile skid, on a ten-mile ride, hot as a pistol but cool inside." And of course, "Cat on a tin roof, dogs in a pile, nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile."

"Help on the Way" - I'm really digging this version from 1976, which segues into "Franklin's Tower." I just love the main riff and the jam explorations:

Sneaky parents

If you are a parent, and you have small children, then you are sneaky.

You sneak a little water into their cups of sugar-laden apple juice, and sometimes when they nap, you and your spouse sneak a little sex.

If you are a parent who finds that offensive, then please go back to the morgue. Parents should sneak around with each other.

The fun part about being sneaky is the risk of getting caught. Besides, it's always better in the daytime when you have more energy and the kids haven't completely worn you out.

We avoid detection, but there has been one close call. A few years ago, my son woke up early from his nap, and we had forgotten to lock the door. As we hid under the covers, he asked why we were in bed without any clothes. I don't remember what we said - probably something about getting dressed.

He bought our sneaky excuse. Then he asked for juice. I added water, and he was none the wiser.

Goodbye, Mary Lou

We attended a celebration of life for Mary Lou Goss, who died last month after a year-long battle with lung cancer.

I worked with Mary Lou for seven and a half years in Federal Way. She was one of the kindest people I have ever known. For some reason, I vividly remember when she held both of my boys when they were babies. She always wanted to see pictures of the boys, too.

Even in the thick of her cancer battle, she showed up to the office with a smile and a positive attitude. She never played the "cancer card" and never wanted you to feel sorry for her. Toward the end, she was coughing and wheezing a lot, and the chemotherapy was pounding her body into submission. But she kept on keepin' on.

She always asked about her co-workers' families and children, and she always gushed about her own. It didn't matter if an angry customer barged into the office, dumped a stack of wet newspapers on her desk and cussed up a storm. She stayed calm and polite - even though she had every right to say "Fuck you, I have cancer."

One evening, I was wrapping up an email to Amanda when Mary Lou let me know she was the last one out and was locking the door. I was typing "I love you" to Amanda when I said "Bye, I love you" out loud to Mary Lou. There was a pause, and she said with a laugh, "I love you too, Andy." I was red-faced at the mix-up, but at the same time, I realized I meant it in the most platonic way possible. Everyone at that office loved Mary Lou.

At today's celebration, her husband, Phil, said over and over again that Mary Lou would want us to celebrate rather than mourn. It was a blessing to share stories about Mary Lou with my former colleagues. It was a privilege to celebrate Mary Lou.

Some people simply make life sweeter. Goodbye, Mary Lou. We promise to keep posting photos of the boys ...

Perspectives in leadership

Leadership requires strength, brains and humility. A killer smile helps, and a killer instinct never hurts.

A boss leads the company by leading other bosses, who lead their teams toward a goal that makes the entire company prosper. That's the idea, anyway.

To digress, parenthood enriches the natural leadership skills we already possess. One does not have to be presidential material to be an effective leader. Parents, I'm talking to you. For one perspective, consider the state of being a parent. If the parent does the job right, the parent will meet the child's needs, and the child will grow into a confident adult who understands right from wrong. Teamwork with a spouse is ideal, but single parents can also adapt and survive. Parents lead children and the family.

Something about marriage and children complete the interpersonal picture. It feels so natural. I wonder how hard single people fight that urge, or if the urge even exists.

As for leadership, people will gravitate to different styles. Some styles are more effective than others. The best leaders lose the ego and put the responsibility of others first. Sort of like a good parent. As one boss told me in a one-minute leadership lesson: "Some employees, you just leave alone. With the rest, you need to know which ones to pat on the back and which ones to kick in the butt."

One style is the likable "be your buddy" boss. I have had a few of these, and they make the work atmosphere fun. A weakness, however, is that the style is more informal. I believe that the more formal a workplace, the more effective it can be. That doesn't mean stiff-suited robots and zero humor. There is the dickhead style of boss who injects any formality with fear. No supervisor should dangle an employee's job and threaten unemployment in order to make a point.

The best leaders I have seen in my career were decisive but considerate. They listened and were curious. They invited their followers onto a bus and traveled toward goals near and far.

My first real leadership role was in 2004. I had led other projects before, but had not managed an employee. As a community editor, I managed one reporter. She was newly hired, and two years older than me. Every day, she would come to me and ask if I had any stories. I had to give her every single story to write. Keep in mind, my boss was the one who hired the reporter. At the time, I always felt awkward telling her what to do. It wasn't until a few years into the next job -  as editor of a small staff - that I found the solution to leadership and effective management.

The answer boils down to three words: Lead every day. I made it a point to discuss daily, with a degree of formality, what my staff was doing that day and what they had planned for the next day. It could be a five-minute conversation or a 45-minute meeting. I made sure they knew I was paying attention to everything, not in a big brother way, but because I cared about the outcome of our efforts. I worked hard to make us feel like a team, and consistently showed the staff examples of their work that had an impact. I thought that the more I showed them what they did right, the more they would do the right things.

Fishbowl philosophy

As my fourth month at The Olympian gets under way, I can finally say that I feel really good about this week's stories.

For the first time in my career, I desperately want to impress my editor. I refuse to delete that comment because you were probably intrigued by my embarrassing admission. Everyone wants to wow their boss. In tomorrow's paper, I will have a story on a grass-roots syringe cleanup and another story on a vacant motel that doubles as a homeless drug den. I don't know if either story will appear on the front page, and really, I don't care. The right people will read them.

I estimate that in three-plus months at The Olympian, I have cranked out 100 stories. That's a lot of practice. I am feeling more comfortable in the job. The best learning experiences occur when you jump from one fishbowl to another. Olympia is the crunchiest fishbowl I've swam in so far in Washington. I did swim in the New York City area for a summer internship back in 1999. That was the busiest fishbowl, reserved for certain breeds.

I am reminded of previous fishbowls. I was hatched in Tacoma, then moved to Germany for two-plus years, then to Ohio and Oklahoma before settling in Northwest Indiana at age 5. At age 18, I moved down to central Indiana to attend college, and at 22, I moved to Arizona. Five and a half years later, we moved to Tacoma. That was eight-plus years ago.

Each fishbowl had its own culture and politics. Indiana and Arizona were conservative and less tolerant of non-conforming lifestyle decisions. Here in Western Washington, we live in a diverse bastion of progressive thought. I admit, sometimes it's even too liberal for me. But just sometimes. I have always leaned left, but with a conservative streak. Or maybe it's more libertarian. I think libertarianism will rise to the forefront as the Millenial Generation comes of age. I sense more libertarian values in that generation, even though their tech-gadget passive-aggressiveness sometimes annoys the shit out of me.

Quote of the day

"Will you please hold my balls?"

That's what my 3-year-old son said in a sing-song request as he placed two rubber bouncy balls in my hand in the lobby at Red Robin.

We all chuckled, and although it wasn't a gut-busting laugh-out-loud moment, there was something so touching about the question's innocent nature. No adult could ask that question without a grin or a reddened face.

I want to delay - as long as possible - the day when my children's minds are permanently scuffed by the real world's gutters, just like the rest of us. I am compelled to protect every inch of these children, shielding them from scraped knees and bruised hearts, but knowing damn well they need to fall down in order to learn, just like the rest of us.

Yes, my son, I will hold your balls. I will put them in my pocket for safekeeping.

Burnout

Blackened wick chars the candle wax brain
Soot-stained skull and a snuffed-out flame
Smoke twists in towers, campfire eye strain
Matchstick burnout kindles the blame

Risky behavior

Teenagers engage in the riskiest behavior between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m., according to some study I heard about secondhand. I don't need to verify that information because I know it's true. Or at least it feels true.

My sister and I grew up in a single-parent household. Mom worked at least two jobs for as long as I can remember. We never went on food stamps, but times were lean.

In that three-hour window after school but before dinner, we played without adult supervision. We lit fireworks, stole candy and rode bikes across town, scamming for cash, thirsty for adventure in a working-class suburb, free from the aluminum-sided cage we called home, adrenalized by the gamble of getting caught without shackles.

We stayed out of jail and never burned the house down, so I guess that's a bonus.

United States of Fried Dough

Say the word "doughnut," and my toddler goes wild.

My 3-year-old son morphed into a doughnut connoisseur early in life. Our favorite place is Pao's Donuts on 6th Avenue near Mildred Street in Tacoma. For $5, we can score a huge fresh doughnut for each member of the family, plus a bag of glazed doughnut holes.

Today, my son and I ventured out to Pao's in our pajamas, shoes and jackets. He sat on the counter as the woman with the tongs interpreted his pointing finger and correctly bagged a chocolate long john. He also asked to hold the doughnuts while I paid. Remember, folks: Doughnuts are a big deal.

Once in the car, he wanted to hold the bag of doughnut holes for the ride home. Anytime the boy hums while eating, I know he is content like a purring cat.

On this rainy Sunday morning, my buddy's quiet but sustained humming helps keep the car a little warmer.

Beer belly blues

To reduce my burgeoning beer belly, I cut my weekly beer consumption in half. After three weeks, I am pleased with the results.

My clothes fit just a bit better, I sleep more soundly, and I have more energy in the mornings. Not a bad tradeoff! A few nights a week, I will still enjoy a frosty mug of microbrew - IPAs and imperial stouts especially. But it seemed like the nightly brew was adding up to inches on my waste.

Speaking of beers, I will list some favorite microbrews, in no particular order:

- No-Li Brewing (Spokane) Wrecking Ball imperial stout
- Ninkasi (Eugene, Ore.) Tricerahops double IPA
- 7 Seas Brewing (Gig Harbor) Balls Deep IPA
- Irish Death (Ellensburg, WA) scotch ale
- Full Sail (Hood River, Ore.): all products, but especially the bourbon barrel porter
- Wingman Brewing (Tacoma) imperial porter
- Alaskan Brewing, Hop Thermia double IPA
- Sierra Nevada, Narwhal imperial stout
- Epic (Utah), imperial pumpkin porter
- 21st Amendment (San Francisco) Fireside Chat
- Anderson Valley (Mendocino, Calif.) Hop Ottin IPA

Comic sex novel

Anything by author Nicholson Baker is a guilty pleasure. In my hopper is "House of Holes," which bills itself as "a book of raunch." His vocabulary for sex slang is impressive with laugh-out-loud names like peeny wanger.

It's porn sold as literature.

I knew what I was getting into with Nicholson after reading "The Fermata," where the protagonist freezes time and fondles women. This power puts him in control but also spins him out of control. In one memorable (ahem) scene, he stops the flow of time and climbs into the backseat of an attractive woman's car. He records himself reading the dirtiest story he's ever written, inserts the cassette into the car stereo, returns to his car on the freeway and releases time to normal flow. He follows behind until the woman tosses the cassette out the window.

"House of Holes" strives for that alternate reality with plenty of sucking and fucking. Ordinary people crawl into a certain dryer at the laundromat and come out naked in a new land, ready for no-nonsense log jamming, and usually, some freaky jaw-dropping sexcapades that would cause any campus stud or slut to blush.

I have been chewing on "House of Holes" in small doses. They are indulgent servings of campy lust with a slap of science fiction.

Sleep solution

We get 24 hours in a day. Eight of those hours usually go toward a job, and most of us work hard at our jobs. Another eight hours (or less) go toward sleep, and another eight hours (or more) belong to everything and everyone else.

We work hard at our jobs and lives. Do we work hard at our sleep?

I had been averaging six hours of sleep a night for who knows how long. I am making an effort to hit the sack earlier.  On most nights, I average eight hours of sleep a night. Over the course of two weeks, that's a gain of 28 hours of rest - worth three and a half extra nights of sleep.

Consider the toddler who takes a 1.5-hour nap every day. That nap makes a difference, and I know what my toddler is like when he skips the nap. As the day shifts into the evening, he grows more irritable and more defiant. The changes are subtle, but that short nap recharges him enough to finish the day and wind down with the rest of us.

Over the past month, I have noticed subtle changes in my physical and mental health. I rise much easier in the morning, and those mid-afternoon drowsy spells are gone. My inner plumbing (ahem) seems more "efficient." I wonder if that is linked to being more in sync with the so-called circadian rhythm. As the sun rises, it stimulates a hormone inside our bodies that triggers the intestines into action. By going to bed earlier, and logging more sleep before sunrise, I am more in tune with this natural cycle.

Jan. 2014 zeitgeist

I can't believe it has taken this long between blog updates. The zeitgeist this month revolves around the Seahawks and their Super Bowl berth. The Broncos hold a slight edge in the Vegas odds, and the country wants to see Peyton Manning retire on top. I just know it will be a good game.

I'm wrapping up my second month at The Olympian. Slowly but surely, I am finding a groove. I was proud of a story last week involving a dad who hopes to rewrite state law so that his disabled son can find a job (more or less). The story failed to crack our website's top 10 in terms of hits, but the feedback from readers was encouraging. Three readers called to thank me for writing it. They were thrilled to see the topic so prominently displayed on the front page. I may not have reached readers the way a crime story would, but I reached the right readers - the ones who will carry this conversation's torch.