Odd person #3: Oma.

Listen. I have to tell you about this guy.

I was sitting on an airplane, writing feverishly about a previous post topic, when the guy next to me starts chatting me up. Generally I like to keep to myself on airplanes, otherwise you're signing yourself up for a looooong three hours.

This man is middle aged, and from the Virgin Islands. He works construction. And he very adamantly wants me to consider visiting amtigua.com and learning about Sailing Week.

I am polite, make a few jokes, but I try not to engage in new trains of conversation much, as I am in the middle of writing something. So I'll say something, he'll laugh, then I'll turn straight back to my notebook and start writing. But that doesn't stop him.

Twice, he took my notebook from me! The first time he wrote down the website, then at the end of the flight he wrote down his NUMBER and name.

As the plane landed, he said "Are you going to be back in Atlanta soon?" I say, "Nope. Not ever. I don't have any plans to ever come back." He shrugs and tells me to call him if I change my mind.

No Oma! You are old! Just stop it!

Odd person #1: Throw out your gum.

Nuggs and I encounter a lot of weird people because of our jobs and because, well, we're alive. Herein starts our semi-weekly feature in which we point out said people to you.

Today I went to a kind, middle-aged woman's home to interview her for a story. I walked into her house, cooed over her cat, and started setting up my recording equipment when all of the sudden she blurts out, "I'm sorry but you have to spit out your gum right now." Startled, I said no problem and looked frantically for a trash can. As she handed me one she said, "I have PTSD and if you don't throw it away I'm going to completely freak out."

Huh! I should have spit it out beforehand anyway because it's not the most professional practice, but I forgot I had it in my mouth. I didn't mean for my gum chewing to bring up something that haunts her from her past! Oops.

Odd person #2: Yelling out of car windows.

I decided to try something new yesterday: biking to work. 12 miles each way. Windy, hilly, traffic-filled roads. Biking that stupid long ride is hard enough, without the "help" from people in cars.

Things people screamed at me out their windows yesterday:

• Farmer man in pickup truck: "Can't you read you g**d*mn mother f***ing IJUT!"
• Obese hairless young woman in soccer mom van: "C'mon! Bike faster!"
• Some losers I didn't look at: "Wooooooo yeah!"

Albeit I was going slow. But to the above and to the homeless man who walked along side me trying to engage me in conversation, please keep your comments to yourself.

At the very least, please have the decency to say out the word id-i-ot instead of abbreviating. It makes you sound like the idiot when you try to abbreviate it.

Whippersnapper vs. elder: An epic showdown.

I’m just now getting on a plane. As I said to my group after receiving my “graduation certificate”, this multimedia training has been one of the best experiences of my very short career thus far, and I feel like instead of it coming to an end, it’s really just beginning.

When I look back on the week, it has been exceedingly great. The people were supremely interesting and kind, the material was invigorating and attainable, and the venue was gorgeous. I’m so happy with the way it went.

Something happened though. And her name is Martha. Martha Lenn. Yeah. She happened in a big way. The organization apparently thinks it prudent to place each person with a partner on the first day, based on who is sitting next to you, then force you to essentially form a marriage with that person for the whole rest of the week, regardless of how well you work together, what the skill levels are, and how absolutely insane the match is.

Insane doesn’t begin to do it justice. Picture this if you can. 23-year-old whippersnapper is tech savvy, energetic, and excited about using multimedia to help repair a deflating industry. 120-year-old confoundingly ends up in this seminar, regardless of the fact that she loathes technology, the Internet, and most of all, young adults. Whippersnapper digests tech basics and new techniques at the speed of light. Geriatric still cannot discern between on/off functions after a full week of intense, hands-on instruction.

Thing is, of course we all have to work with people we don’t get along with. Sometimes we have to work with people we downright hate. But this was unlike any situation anyone in a workplace has ever faced, I can pretty much guarantee that. Martha lacked the capability to retain even the slightest semblance of technical information. The record button anecdote I shared with you was a perfect example of this. When operating the video camera, you move the dial to “camera”, which I would do for her because she couldn’t possibly maneuver the complicated hold-and-slide procedure, then all you had to do to record film was to hit one red button labeled “record”. This is the button closest to your thumb. Many times, her thumb would in fact be on the button, double-punching it and thus turning it on and off throughout the interview.

All right. So we’ve got an old lady who sucks at technology. Boo hoo, right? Wrong. Hear me out. A technologically-challenged elderly woman I can handle. But Martha. Is. Insane. Certifiably. Her bio said she was a veteran journalist of 25 years, yet she completely lacks any sense of news judgment, and gets extremely offended at the slightest gentle suggestion that maybe her ideas are not the best.

Example: We had to storyboard an anniversary piece about a boy who was paralyzed from a fallen speaker at a local shopping center. I suggested that for this hypothetical story, we should hypothetically include an interview from the boy’s parents. She said that was fine, but only if we single out one of the parents to talk to instead of them both. Why would we do that? I asked. Because it would be more moving, and better that way, she said. Then, we had to come up with one word that signifies the heart of this anniversary story. I suggested “unfortunate” or “unsafe”. She said those words aren’t bloody enough and that our word needs to be more dangerous. I gently suggested that tactic might be a little sensational. Then she suggested the word “mis-take”. Why the dash? I asked. Because it singles out ‘mis’, like he nearly missed his life, she said. I sighed.

Naturally, I talked to our seminar head about this. While he was sympathetic, he thought it was in my best interest to stick it out with Martha because “everyone has to deal with difficult people in newsrooms”. His solution to my conundrum was to have an impromptu session on the importance of teamwork. So this was an unscheduled, last-minute addition to our curriculum…all because of me. Our presenter asked us to face our partners and each ask the other what we can do to help him/her. Just one question – two minutes each – and we had to record and edit it. I told Martha I needed to not have to spend every moment of this training re-teaching her basic fundamentals of equipment handling (like how to press record), and which I honestly did 100 percent patiently at least twenty to thirty times. I told her if she is far behind, one of the instructors should specially work with her because I can’t afford the time or resources of this seminar teaching her.

When I asked her what she needed, she told me I’m just like all of her students who are rude, demanding, and self-centered. Then, she told me I look exactly like her daughter, and started crying! She said I need to learn to treat people like human beings, not computers. She said she has valuable aspects to bring to the table and that her type of journalism is being ruined by my generation. Then she said she can’t learn about equipment without reading the product manuals front to back. I suggested maybe she should read some of them at night in the hotel. She didn’t.

A day passes. We are in a session in which our seminar head read us the story of his adaptation and acceptance of technology into his work after years of print-only experience. Many older people in the group identify with him. It sparks a thoughtful conversation among the group and the instructors. Still, though, people (as I’m sure you’re experiencing at this point) weren’t really understanding what I was going through. Yes, our seminar had a crotchety old lady attending, but what was the big deal? She’s mostly harmless and can’t be all that bad, right? I don’t blame you for thinking this. I just thank the baby Jesus that what I’m about to tell you about actually happened.

A hand goes up. Martha, an infrequent contributor to discussions, stands up out of her chair, takes a step away from the table, and starts yelling – YELLING – about the “young people’s internet” and how journalism is ruined now because of it and that all of us “young people” only care about bells and whistles and not the fundamentals of journalism and that “our” industry is ruining “her” industry. Then, her rant culminates in one glorious sentence. Yelling about the Internet, she screams, “IF I HAVE TO SEE ONE MORE NIPPLE….”

People. Freak. Out! Nipples? Porn? Journalism isn’t porn! The Internet is not full of nipples! What pages is she going to anyway? And how is the Internet attributed solely to “young people”? Our seminar head necessarily calls a break and everyone walks out of the room, shaking with anger at her ignorant and offensive statements. We stand around a table in the kitchen. I joke, “When I’m lying in bed at night…I’m thinking…how can I get more nipples on the Internet? I mean, as a young person who invented the Internet, I just wish there could be way more nipples, you know?”

We return. Back to the discussion, Martha says, “Young people have no sense of decency. You only care about yourselves, and you don’t understand good journalism. But don’t worry. We still love you. We cherish you. You’re wonderful. We will always love you.”

I calmly jotted down a few sentences, which I knew would be the closing statement to this conversation. As her partner, as the obvious target of this conversation, and as the youngest person in the room, I raise my hand and simply, calmly say, “I find that condescending. We are your colleagues. Now, ‘bells and whistles’ and good journalism are not mutually exclusive, and there are phenomenal examples of this in the Internet. And we are all here to learn how to meld the two together. That’s why we’re here.” Hand goes down. People around the table are furiously nodding their heads in agreement. Discussion is over.

How did I feel about her rant? I’ll tell you. GREAT. Because finally, after days of enduring her attitude and long-winded, completely nonsensical speeches, finally, everyone understood. The quiet elderly lady is not just any old quiet participant. She is crazy. She is wrong. She is Martha.

Epilogue: Immediately after her rant, we were all reassigned partners. After enduring Martha for four days, my last two were spent with a snappy, sassy, great partner. The person who was reassigned to Martha spent two nights in her hotel room sobbing out of frustration.

lil' buddy

Florida!

Here are some slices of my training trip so far.

I was the first person to go through airport security early Sunday morning. Seriously! They had to open the doors for me. I stared at about 15 employees through the security doors and they stared at me, like we were both wondering something about the other, then they finally let me in. Then I got to my gate...and there was absolutely no one in sight. No airline agents, no other waiting passengers - only Larry King interviewing Baba Wawa on CNN.

This is what my hotel room looks like. It is very spacious.



This is Sunny and Andrea, walking to lunch in the rain.


Adam, doing the same.
And Meg, doing the same.


And these are my stupid horrible bangs that I did not ask for!

Today I was so bored I traced a banana.

Observe:

But it didn't stop there. You see, my work is in the midst of a week-long strategy session, thus resulting in invigorating, yet lengthy conversations of up to four straight hours in a row with no break. Today I will share with you the drawings I felt compelled to release onto my notepad.

(My program is a little complicated these days.)

(I saw Rogue Wave at the Fillmore in San Francisco this weekend)


(This was truly a low point.)


(I'm watching Enchanted tonight for the first time.)


(I'm biking to work this week.)


(She's not looking too good these days.)

Embarrassing anecdotes as of late.

1. This weekend I attended a dinner party hosted by a friend's friend whom I did not know very well. At the end of the night as I was putting on my coat/sweatshirt, she said to me "I really like your sweatshirt" and as she reached her hand toward the collar to point at my sweatshirt, I simultaneously moved my head down to look at the sweatshirt, thus accidentally forcing her thumb STRAIGHT INTO MY MOUTH. All the way to the back. "It's...it's...from Old Navy" I stammered (forgetting the words "H&M") and she replied softly "uh...sorry about that". Then I left, stupefied.

2. One of my colleagues recently received a prestigious journalism fellowship at Stanford. True to congratulatory fashion, a bunch of us gathered at a skyway lounge after work to toast to his success and bid him an early farewell. We do this every time someone leaves or something great happens, and every time my boss picks up the tab. So as everyone had finished their one drink, we stood up to leave and my boss grabbed for the check. "Thank you!" I said loudly to him. He replied, "I'm not paying for you - just for me." Everyone heard. So I said, "No I know, I'm just saying, thanks for paying first!" Then I left, stupefied.