Promoted

Journalism is my love-hate relationship. I love the ability to chronicle the folly of man, the absurdities of existence. When everything clicks, when sources call you back before deadline and you score that essential document nobody else has, the universe clicks.

It’s all gravy.

You feel like a 100-foot tall Woodward and Bernstein, ripping the city’s foul heart asunder, punching through city hall roof and scooping up errant bureaucrats and public servants in your fists.

Other times, the sense of futility is deafening. The mundane conversations, pouring through line-by-line of legislation, a panging notion everything you write will be misunderstood.

They’ll think you have an agenda. Biased. Member of the liberal media elite.

A subversive.

So you dust yourself off, rise from the barstool and continue writing.

You do it because getting the facts and putting them on the record is essential, lest the propagandists grab the public’s ear.

Honest, straightforward reporting is going by the wayside, leaving partisan commentary masquerading as journalism.

Corporate media with an agenda.

Making fat stacks.

Whether the public is informed is irrelevant.

Fox News, MSNBC and CNN. The demise of print. A wellspring of Internet news sites, blogs and electronic delivery of news.

After nearly 20 years of reporting for various newspapers, both daily and weekly, I received a promotion.

I am a managing editor. Some of my co-workers said the promotion was long overdue. As much as I’d like to live in a cabin by a lake and write novels, journalism is my bread and butter. It’s how I survive, and if I knew how rough it would be, I’d be doing something else, like teaching improv to drunk hipsters at the Unitarian church on Friday nights. Maybe cleaning toilets or washing dishes in a biker bar.

You know; something more profitable and dignified. 

The older I get, the more I realize we’re all clowns shoved into one comically tiny vehicle. Each of us struggling and clawing for breathing space before we suffocate or snap our necks. Pressing against each other, arms knotted like pretzels, there’s nowhere for us to go. We’re stuck in that stupid car, venturing together on the same journey. We’d better learn to like the cramped conditions and enjoy the ride.

Another bonus about growing older is my bullshit detector is finely honed. I know when I’m being lied to, used or otherwise patronized. My proclivity to be painfully forthright, to the point of brusqueness, shocks many.

This is why I’m never invited to parties.

As managing editor, I’m responsible for editing stories, writing headlines and (eventually) pagination. Quite a responsibility, but I’ve prepared myself for this. Professionally, it’s a dream come true.

I’ve got several ideas I’d like to see, including a return to investigative journalism and an expanded online presence. Harnessing social media such as Facebook and Twitter.

Newspapers should remain viable medium for mass communication, but acknowledge the Internet is not some looming threat. The Internet is another broadcasting tool publishers can use to spread their content out to the world. Before, we relied on the physical product, the newspaper which needed to be printed and distributed manually. Now our words are read on screens to everyone with a computer, cellphone or tablet. How is this a threat? It should be embraced.

Solid objectivity, research and superb writing are in short supply. We plan to give this to the public. There’s a real draught in well-told, local stories. We shouldn’t regurgitate facts, but put them in some kind of perspective, making issues relevant to readers. Newspapers inform, entertain and educate. Great newspapers, the stately broadsheets that have stood the test of time, do this and more. 

My mission as managing editor will be to produce a quality product, one the staff and community can be proud of.

Press Release

When I receive a press release as a Word Doc instead of a PDF, I can change its content easily. Because I can alter its content easily, stuff like this happens:

                                                                   Clicken to Embiggen!

Don't let stuff like this happen. Send only PDFs as press releases. Thank you.

Motherhoodwinked

Proving CNN is at the vanguard of supplying the world with relevant information, the network's website ran an essay by writer Zoe Zorka today, where she bemoans her difficult decision not to have children.

Double Z's gripes stemmed from her own feelings and views on child-rearing and motherhood, and how stigmatized she is for not wanting her vagina to be a two-way street instead of a vacant cul-de-sac.

I know plenty of women who don't want children. It's their personal choice, and I respect that.

Time Magazine tackled the subject in a cover story entitled "Having It All Without Having Children", which includes the following: "The decision to have a child or not is a private one, but it takes place, in America, in a culture that often equates womanhood with motherhood."

But Zorka, 27, takes it too far, comparing herself to a civil rights champion persecuted for choosing not to plop out a few kids.

Read her crazy screed here: http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/01/living/parents-irpt-zorka-no-kids/index.html#cnn-disqus-area.

I know, right?

Pretty self-absorbed and delusional, even for a Millennial.

When I first read this, I though, "Oh, I see what you're doing, CNN! You're putting stories from The Onion on your news site! Quite a jape, you scurvy knaves!"

However, it's no joke. She fancies herself as an activist facing discrimination:

"I've had women tell me that I was a horrible person, a horrible wife and a horrible American because it was my "duty" to reproduce. I was shocked to hear such a statement in 2013. I was born in the 1980s -- what I thought was an age of enlightenment in which women no longer were pigeonholed into such archaic stereotypes."

First, the 1980s were far from an "age of enlightenment". Ever hear of The Thompson Twins? Rick Astley? Kajagoogoo? Don't fling yourself before us as some martyr for a greater cause. Choosing not to do something doesn't make you a victim of injustice. Being excluded from doing something others do makes you a victim of injustice. Perspective and context matter here. Civil rights activists of the 1960s fought an unjust system for black equality and fair treatment. They suffered death threats, beatings and some were murdered. You're bitched at by some redneck North Carolina housewife and suddenly you're Gandhi?

I don't see black-clad government troops surrounding your uterus and seizing it. There's no Department of Fertility and Infant Creation. When the feds strap you to a gurney and pump you full of fertility drugs and the sperm from Nobel laureates, then you can complain. Until that horrific dystopia arrives, you're just another entitled, over-educated young American turning a personal choice into a controversy.

"I identify with many of my gay and lesbian friends in that I've always felt I should be honest about who I was. I don't think it's right to have to say, "Well, we'll have kids someday," just as I don't think it's right for a gay man to have to say, "Someday I'll meet a nice girl and settle down." Like him, this is simply who I am."

Here's where the argument really veers into Crazyland. Gays and lesbians face prejudice and ignorance every day, and some of it not ending well. Remember Matthew Shepard, that 21-year old gay man tortured to death in Colorado? Or Mark Carson, a 32-year old gay man shot in the face in New York? Or any of the 30 gay, lesbian or transgender victims murdered by hate crimes in 2011, the highest in one year? With the exception of the Middle East, where are childless women tortured to death or killed outright? The self-righteous brittle old busybodies giving you the cold shoulder because your desire not to have babies are not the Mujahideen or the Westboro Baptist Church. They're just Slimfast-drinking, stretch mark-covered bimbos who believe Jesus puts babies in their naughty parts so they could feel less dead inside.

"Like the equal rights crusaders before me who have challenged the beliefs of society with regard to race, gender and sexual orientation, I realize that my views will not always be popular. I just wish to do my part in creating a society that allows everyone, regardless of personal choices, to be accepted and able to express themselves freely without fear of judgment."

I'm sure the real civil rights crusaders who have done and who still do risk their lives fighting oppression think your manifesto is a load of self-absorbed, narcissistic navel-gazing designed to rationalize your petty decision. Choosing not to breed is a personal choice, but it's a choice. Society might judge you and your husband for that decision, and you might get sour looks from country club biddies, but so what? Nobody's burning crosses on your lawn or calling you "faggot" or "queer".

Certain religious affiliations are opposed to your choice because hedonistic lifestyles - such as sex without reproduction - are verboten. Since this isn't the Middle Ages, where the church held considerable influence, who cares? People judge every decision you make. It's 21st Century America, where everyone's restless, bored and opinionated. Whether these opinions rely on common sense is another matter. People undoubtedly called you selfish for not wanting kids. So? It doesn't mean you should turn it into a rallying cry for women shamed by breeders. It's your life and your decision. Don't label yourself an oppressed minority striving to right a social wrong.

Again, I have nothing against women or men who don't want kids. More power to ya. My objection is this whiny bitchfest, a constant carping and cry for attention. Use your creative energies for more important things and stop hogging space on CNN's website; they have to return to providing their audience with more conjecture and pseudo-journalism.

Cast Aside

So I called an organization today because I'm reporting on breaking news only they could answer. Many news outlets have dealt with them over the past few days, and I was put on hold with the director for over five minutes.

The interview hadn't begun when I'm told the local TV news van pulled up and could I possibly call back in an hour.

Really? You're pulling that shit with me? I have to terminate my interview after being told to wait on the phone because the fucking TV news is there?

What a festering mound of iguana shit!

If you have any doubt about the power of TV versus print, here's your example. Our local TV news station is run by tranquilized Rhesus monkeys and still people laud them as the bulwark of truth. They stagger in late to meetings, usually with a cameraman who resembles a scruffy crack addict, and an attractive reporter who looks like she headed her sorority's pledge class. Everyone from public officials to normal humans genuflect in their anointed presence as the camera begins rolling and the sound bites start flying.

Look, I get how a local weekly newspaper is about as effective as a woman taking a pregnancy test one month after conception. I get how the Internet is the Grand Poobah of media, how not having an online presence spells extinction for print.

What I don't get is how this organization can push me aside for the local TV news when I was on the phone waiting for an interview. This isn't the first time I've been cast aside because the coiffed and buffed overpaid mannequins of local TV barged in with a grandiloquent flourish.

There really isn't anything positive I can say about TV news. I find it manipulative, shallow and inane. It's a sensationalistic sideshow responsible for dumbing down the issues, distilling them into easily digestible sound bites and squirting them into the viewer's brains. Whenever that news van shows up, something magical occurs. Rational people lose their sanity and are turned into groveling morlocks from the Hollow Earth.

"Oooh, look! It's the local TV news! Look at how stunning the reporter is! She's got the wholesomeness of Kelly Ripa with the sassiness of a German dominatrix!"

The more I work as a print journalist, the more I'm convinced my life is one cosmic joke. Like Jim Carey in "The Truman Show", I'm trapped in a world not of my making. My life is one gargantuan Skinner Box filled with tantalizing rewards and cruel punishments. I'm beaten down severely, reminded that everything is suffering, that intelligence and effort don't matter, and douchebags in suits reap rewarding careers and respect.

Since America is an illiterate funhouse filled with whining children, obese mothers in muumuus and angry men screaming partisan rhetoric at their radios, this slight by TV news makes sense. It's a frustrating experience going to work every day to interview people, writing the words, accurately portraying events and crafting a news story only to be stopped by someone who doesn't appreciate print. Whether words on paper or a screen, language and writing matter. TV relies on images, folksy personalities and attractive presenters. Whether substance leaks through into the broadcast is purely incidental.

Media Whores

In the Netflix series “House of Cards”, journalist Zoe Barnes, played by Kate Mara, has a torrid affair with Congressman Frank Underwood, played by Kevin Spacey. Their relationship is one of self-interest and convenience; Barnes receives insider information about the horse-trading in Washington’s back rooms, while Underwood has a reporter he controls. In one scene, Underwood tells her the sex is not about his gratification, but power.

For Barnes, compromising her integrity and ethics as a journalist is all about obtaining information other reporters can’t get. It’s about getting the exclusive, and breaking the story.

The messy stuff about journalistic ethics and morality merely cloud her goals.

House of Cards is the latest Hollywood depiction of female journalists who using their vaginas to score the news. Though an excellent political drama with intense acting and superb writing, House of Cards trots out the cliché of “repwhoreters” – female reporters sleeping with their sources.

Barnes is determined, almost sociopathic in her calculations. She fires back at her editor, refuses to name her source and continues to pester Underwood for more crumbs. Veteran reporter Janine Skorsky, played by Constance Zimmer, excoriates the youth Barnes on her brashness, and calls her “Twitter twat” for her reliance on social media.

Yet in a later episode, Skorsky admits that she, too, had a fling with a congressman, and also bedded sources for information.

“I used to suck, screw, and jerk anything that moved just to get a story,” Skorsky said with pride, then names the list of her Capital Hill paramours.

The implication here is female reporters are hookers with steno pads, rubbing uglies and prostituting themselves for stories.

In the movie Ironman, Robert Downey Jr. plays weapons magnate Tony Stark, a millionaire playboy with a penchant for extravagance. Early in the film, reporter Christine Everhart, played by Leslie Bibb, abruptly grills Stark on the dangers of the arms industry. Everhart, opposed to weapons, proceeds to lecture him on the consequences of an arms race. Stark retorts with a verbal beat-down of his own, contending his company’s scientific innovations do more good than harm.

“You ever lose an hour of sleep your whole life?” Everhart asks.

“I’d be prepared to lose a few with you,” Stark replies. Cut to both of them tumbling in bed.

Why did Everhart, who wanted a “serious answer” from her source – who she philosophically despises – sleep with him? Wouldn’t he be repugnant to her?

I loathed this scene when I saw it because it depicted Everhart as an airhead cocktease instead of a serious reporter. But she did write for Vanity Fair, so I guess my previous assessment was accurate.

 

In the 1981 film Absence of Malice, Sally Field plays reporter Megan Carter, who has an affair with Michael Gallagher, played by Paul Newman, a man accused of a crime she’s writing about.

Even if you have the brain of a gnat, you’d comprehend the ethical conundrum of banging the subject of your stories.

No professional distance or restraint.

Just knob-gobbling and stained sheets.

Despite these cinematic depictions, not all female reporters engage in such unprofessional conduct.

It amazes me that now, in 2013, men still don’t know how to communicate with women. They misread signals and interpret a passing interest as romantic interest. Especially lecherous old politicians and police officers, who fantasize about attractive reporters or any women for that matter, as sexual objects to be conquered or dominated.

Female reporters are portrayed as naughty news vixens using seduction on powerful middle aged men so they answer questions.

What does it say about professional reporters who become emotionally and physically involved with the men they cover?

Why risk your impartiality for cock, even if that cock is attached to a powerful millionaire with access to the nuclear launch codes?

These women aren’t confined to the realm of Hollywood bullshit. They’re not all forged from the deranged imagination of a screenwriter.

Philadelphia Inquirer reporter Laura Foreman slept with Pennsylvania state Senator Henry Cianfrani, whom she wrote about. Her editors at the Inquirer knew about the relationship and allowed it to continue, but when Foreman went to The New York Times and it was discovered she played tonsil hockey with Cianfrani, she was let go.

New York Times reporter Judith Miller slept with Congressman Les Aspin while he was her source.

Gina Chon, a Wall Street Journal reporter who covered the war in Iraq, had a relationship with former National Security Council official Brett McGurk, while using him as a source.

Telemundo reporter Mirthala Salinas had an affair with Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa while covering him.

Now I might sound like Captain Misogynist from Planet Chauvinist, but such behavior is unethical. One of the reasons why the media is a clown bukkake nightmare circus is the erosion of the public’s trust. How can readers rely on reporters to deliver the news objectively without a hint of bias or favoritism when the reporters are robo-fuckbots screwing for stories?

So here’s my advice to all reporters, both male and female. Ready?

The thing you do with your genitals and your sources?

Don’t so that.

Seriously.

You’re better than that. I know it’s your prerogative to go with your gut and emotions, but trust me on this. What you’re doing just makes you look like a desperate asshole. Use your brains. Interviewing is not difficult. If you’re really desperate for a fling, fuck the mulatto in the mailroom or the nerd in the IT department. But a vibrator if you must, but don’t bang your sources. If you do, you’ll be a sad cliché, joining the ranks of the manipulative reporters who buy into the sordid quid pro quo agreements politicians, police officers and businessmen have with their Lois Lane knock-offs.

Focus on the information gathering and writing. If your source gets grabby or aggressive, blast the fucker with pepper spray. Take pride in yourselves and your career. You’re supposed to be a reporter, not a Las Vegas escort.

Besides, do you really want to have rough sex with a politician while his bodyguard stands outside the hotel room door? Or have an elderly businessman perform autoerotic asphyxiation on you with his necktie while slapping his wrinkled scrotum against your chin?

Remember, you can’t ask them questions with a mouthful of dick.

Adventures in Larryland

Early this morning, around 3 a.m., I sat in front of my laptop and downloaded a video game. This was no ordinary hack and slash or explosion-laden shooter. The game's protagonist is a 40-year old virgin named Larry Laffer and his only weapon is his rampant libido and penchant for striking out with the ladies.

The game, Leisure Suit Larry Reloaded, is the latest offering from Replay Games and N-Fusion Interactive. A tribute to the halcyon days of point-and-click graphical adventure games, LSL Reloaded was made possible through a successful crowd funding effort on Kickstarter last spring. It took one year  for the developers to go from a rough demo and concept sketches to one hell of a game.

Back in 1987, Leisure Suit Larry was one of my favorite computer games. Larry Laffer is a leisure suited lothario who arrives in the gambling and vice mecca of Lost Wages for one bawdy night of gambling, drinking and chatting up women. Larry's goal is to score with the woman of his dreams. The snag: he's an uncool dolt who fancies himself a Casanova. Despite his posturing, the lovable loser is an Everyman the players can root for.

He shoots! He scores! Larry's a disco douche, but the ladies love his moves. 

When the game's creator, Al Lowe, pleaded for funding for the Kickstarter campaign last year, I jumped at the chance to support it. Now, over a year later, Replay Games and N-Fusion Interaction released the game to backers. I completed the adventure in a matter of hours for the purpose of writing this blog entry. I'll return to Lost Wages later to savor and explore every cranny and orifice, just to make Larry proud.

Replay Games released Leisure Suit Larry Reloaded at midnight Pacific time. That meant for those die-hard Larry fans on the East coast, the game went live at 3 a.m. I went to Replay's website, entered my special key expressly for Kickstarter backers, and began downloading the game to my Mac. A few minutes later I was immersed in Larry's world of Lost Wages, seedy bars and dodgy characters.

The final product is a spectacular journey into familiar territory for fans of the original Leisure Suit Larry in the Land of the Lounge Lizards. Slicker hand-drawn graphics, superb soundtrack by composer Austin Wintory, fresh puzzles, hilarious dialogue and a new girl - Jasmine, an Asian whale trainer - make this version a must-have. The original voice of Larry, Jan Rabson, returns with his usual brilliance. Hearing Rabson deliver Larry's signature introduction, "Hey, baby. My name is Larry; Larry Laffer" reminds fans just how that voice brings the nebbishy would-be playboy to life. Brad Venable is the cheeky narrator, adding snarky commentary on everything and everyone Larry interacts with.

Back at Lefty's. It's like Cheers, but sleazier, and nobody knows your name. 

Some of the puzzles have been rewritten, but the basic plot is still present. Left's bar still holds a drunk, secret back room and hooker, but making things happen involves different puzzles instead of the ones from the original game. There's also a plaque in Lefty's dedicated to the Larry Kickstarter 69'ers, those Kickstarter backers who pledged an additional 69 cents. I'm listed on the plaque, and it left me gobsmacked seeing my name in one of my favorite adventure game franchises. Thanks to the designers for honoring the donors who gave a little bit more for Larry.

Larry Kickstarter 69'ers scrolling plaque. Because 69 cents means we give AND receive.

I posted last month how disappointed I was with not having a Mac beta to play with in advance of the general release. The PC beta was available to PC users, but us Mac users were left suffering. However, I think Replay Games compensated for this perceived slight by releasing an exceptionally well-designed, well-executed game. LSL Reloaded is fun to play, and a fitting homage to old school computer games.

Larry celebrating with a willing romantic partner. Bottoms up! 

A series of icons enable Larry to move, examine, taste, touch and talk to the world around him. There's an inventory menu where the player can store and interact with various objects Larry acquires by poking around. Larry still requires a taxi to get around Lost Wages, and this can be expensive. I found gambling at Caesar's Phallus casino can restore Larry's depleted funds.

There are some red herrings in the game. One puzzle involving bungee cords and a fire escape tripped me up, but I eventually solved it after much cursing. Another puzzle involving creating the perfect perfume is also new, but is easy if you know what you're looking for. There's also an endearing moment with an inflatable doll, which comes in handy for Larry (and not the way you're thinking).

Josh Mandel as Dr. Frankenstein and Paul Trowe as Igor during Larry's resurrection scene. 

Of course the big reason I supported the Kickstarter was Al Lowe's participation. Lowe designed games for Sierra-Online, the original publisher for the Leisure Suit Larry games. Josh Mandel, another veteran game designer and comedian, provided writing and voices. Paul Trowe, who tested games for Sierra, founded Replay Games, the publisher of Leisure Suit Larry Reloaded. These gentlemen, along with the New Jersey-based N-Fusion Interactive, labored tirelessly on reworking Leisure Suit Larry. Their endeavor shows in the game's high quality, from the voice acting, to musical score, to the animation and humor. The entire team did right by the Kickstarter backers, and after a frenetic year, they can finally sleep soundly knowing they made one kick-ass game.

Larry's romantic escapades land him in hot water...

Leisure Suit Larry Reloaded is a love letter to retro-gaming. It's Al Lowe's gift to all of the fans who enjoyed the Larry franchise and had to endure years of no games, or two terrible games by Vivendi, which re-imagined the franchise with Larry's nephew, Larry Lovage. Lowe had no input into the Larry Lovage games, and it showed.

With the success of this Kickstarter, Larry Laffer is reborn, bigger and better. All of the right elements coalesced into a superbly funny adventure game and a lighthearted adult romp reminiscent of 1980s interactive entertainment.

Hopefully, Lowe, Trowe and Mandel will remake the other Leisure Suit Larry games, and give the polyester-clad hero more cheesy pickup lines and awkward situations for our sadistic amusement.

The Man Rests Deep

The day Alfred Mansley died, the sun eclipsed a pale sliver behind a bulbous moon, cloaking the skies in muddy darkness. Soothsayers babbled about ominous portents and dire prognostications of the solar event, while the sane merely balked and returned to their 24-hour cable bitchfests and the latest decapitation pornography.

Mansley would’ve enjoyed the sublime irony of the eclipse over his funeral. He might’ve told his guests casually over a strong demitasse and biscotti how he planned the entire thing, and coordinated his demise to coincide with the solar eclipse.

“It’ll give the funeral guests something to talk about on the ride home,” he’d say in his clipped northeastern accent.

His guests would’ve predictably guffawed at the remark, and respond with grins and giggles, “Madly droll, you are, Alfred! Where do you come up with these things?”

But such a scenario wouldn’t play out.

Alfred Mansley, publisher of the Rutland Beacon, Vermont’s most conservative newspaper, was dead of a brain aneurysm at age 78.

The Mansley family began the Beacon in 1894 and through the years weathered the tumultuous waves of success and failure. While other papers fell to financial realities of the publishing industry, the Beacon, tight-fisted and tenacious, clung like a wet kitten on the bow of a tempest-tossed scow.

When Mansley assumed control of the newspaper from his father, the late Lionel John Mansley in 1973, the country was in the throes of scandal, social upheaval and domestic unrest.

Mansley fired all male reporters with hair past their collars and ordered women in the secretary pool to wear skirts down past their knees. Priggish and puritanical, Mansley scoffed at the youthful “free love” movement and began a companywide purge of unmarried employees. To him, family values and tradition trumped a natural, healthy sexual appetite.

In 1994, Vermont Gov. Howard Dean presented a proclamation to Mansley, honoring the Rutland Beacon’s 100^th anniversary. Mansley touted the success of his publication by offering deep discounts on subscriptions, which nearly doubled overnight.

Rutland Beacon reporters Jake Proctor and Ellie Grauman won statewide reporting awards, further boosting the paper’s reputation.

Yet things wouldn’t remain rosy for the stodgy daily newspaper. After 2002, the paper’s circulation began a steady decline in readership, subscriptions and advertisers. The once mighty bulwark of the Green Mountain State began crumbling under the hefty weight of cable news networks, Internet news sites and general public apathy.

After a disastrous shareholder’s meeting, Mansley, infirm and decrepit, cloistered himself in his mansion, never to leave. Mangy, unkempt and resembling Howard Hughes during the batshit crazy years, Mansley fell into a blissful dysfunction, a calming madness. He spent mornings cushioned in his four-poster bed, surrounded by opulent paintings, furnishings and the aid of his manservant, Othello, which wasn’t really the Dominican man’s name, but Mansley saw all black people with a fractured racial lens: either they were exotic foreigners worthy of Shakespeare’s titular Moor, or they were antebellum servants from Gone With The Wind.

By noon, Mansley struggled from his bedchamber, bathed, took his required bowel movement, and trudged downstairs for lunch. His cook, a Jamaican woman he called Mammy, served him the same thing every day: prime rib (medium rare), two eggs (over easy) and a bottle of Dom Perignon. 

Following his meal, he’d head to his study, where, flanked by bookshelves, a liquor cabinet and a large oaken desk, the old man read the news and caught up with world events. He’d guzzle Scotch and soda and write correspondence to his friends and family; mostly rambling diatribes about how publishing is a serpent coiled around the leg of an incontinent elephant, waiting to be violently trampled.

When his business associates came calling, he’d welcome them with alacrity and entertain them in the billiard room. The old man, a gaunt, pale giant, towered over the soft green felt table, cue in hand, and eyed his next shot.

During one of these social calls, Beacon editor Walt Hirsch noticed Mansley hovered between lucidity and madness.

“The president thinks he can toy with this nation, with what we built, by punishing us, Walter. This ebony-colored jackal socialist yearns to put people like me out of business, and for what? Because we’re successful. Because we’ve labored our lives believing in America,” Mansley said, and tapped the ivory ball with his cue. The ball drifted slowly over the green felt and into a leather pocket.

“It’s getting difficult every day to do this job,” Hirsch said, staring absentmindedly into his Scotch, examining the light reflecting off the clinking ice cubes. “Reporters are paramecium. Flagellating protozoa. Microscopic pond scum. When I started in 1990, I was young and optimistic, right out of J-school. I was going to cover corruption at the highest levels and keep the bastards honest.”

“I take it things didn’t exactly work out for you.”

“Far from it. The more I delved into stories, the more I wrote, the more I uncovered, the more people pulled away. It’s as if the people resented me for bringing to light uncomfortable truths.”

Mansley chortled, and hacked up a glob of phlegm. He dabbed a handkerchief to the corner of his mouth.

“Pardon, Walter. I found your lament utterly ridiculous,” Mansley said. “If working in publishing has taught me anything, it’s the public’s fickle temperament. People are idiots. No discipline, no tastes. No capacity for responsibility.”

“Still, it’s a bit depressing to try to do your job when everyone hates you.”

“Bullshit,” the old man said, and sunk another billiard ball without blinking. “Look at me. Everyone despises me. The liberals, the secularists, my competition. Those frumpy, effete country club bastards. All tough talk and no balls. I didn’t make this organization thrive without making enemies. Believe me, if you’re making people angry, you’re sticking to your guns. You’re true to yourself.”

Hirsch realized Mansley was correct. Bless his diseased, shrunken heart, he thought.

“The Internet is killing us. Everything is instant updates, minute to minute,” Hirsch said, swallowing the last of his Scotch with a satisfying gulp.

“Such is the nature of things these days,” Mansley said. “High-speed data transfers this, fiber optic network that. Can’t wrap my head around all this technology. We’ve got people who understand that shit better than I do. That’s what I pay them for.”

“I don’t want to keep whining about this…”

“Oh, don’t stop. It’s amusing,” Mansley said, and handed his cue to Othello, who wore an expression of grim indifference. “This is business, Walter. It’s gathering the news, feeding the beast. It’s convincing businesses to advertise with us. Making money. Prospering. Thriving in a world of infotainment, opinion-spewing pundits and lurid photos of some starlet’s tits.”

“How do we compete against that?”

“We don’t. We continue to print the news the way we always have. Stay the course.”

“But the world isn’t a 45 rpm vinyl record. It’s an mp3 blaring from an iPod. News has to be sensationalized, in-your-face, obnoxious roar. It’s The New York Daily News, Fox News, MSNBC. It’s telling people what they want to hear. I hate this new world we live in, too, but we can’t ignore it.”

“So what do you suggest?”

Hirsch thought for a moment as the old man fixed his eyes upon him like a vulture surveying a piece of freshly-killed carrion.

“We make the Beacon relevant, not just for Rutland, but for all of Vermont. Hell, make it regional. New England. Make is essential for people to read,” Hirsch said. “Crank up the volume and make it louder, better, bigger.”

Mansley thanked Hirsch for his thoughtful input and welcomed further dialog on improving his family’s newspaper.

By the day’s end, he fired Hirsch.

* * *

“You know what they’re saying about me, Othello?” Mansley said to his manservant as he stood over the toilet pissing. His urine trickled in a puny stream into the porcelain bowl, splashing on the rim and sprinkling on the tiled floor.

The butler shook his head.

“I don’t know, sir. What are they saying?” Othello replied.

“They say I’m a low-rent Charles Foster Kane. As in Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane. Can you imagine? Me, some greedy, tyrannical plutocrat.”

“The mind boggles, sir.”

“Right,” Mansley said, finishing his tinkle and pulling his wrinkled penis into his striped silk pajamas.

The butler wiped Mansley’s hands with a scented towel and the old man clutched his ivory-tipped mahogany cane.

Ambling into his bedchamber, Mansley crawled into bed. It was nearly 2 a.m.

“It’s not my fault this dysfunctional world lost its purpose,” Mansley said as Othello kneaded the downy, goosefeather pillows. “Everyone’s looking for a quick fix, simple solutions to complicated problems. Nobody wants to work anymore, to sweat. The whole country’s gone soft.”

Othello finished fluffing the pillows and stood ramrod straight.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the butler asked crisply.

“Perhaps a nightcap. Snifter of brandy, please.”

The butler nodded and retrieved a bottle of brandy the next room. He poured the syrupy, heady liquid into a bulbous snifter. Mansley rolled the glass in his hand and sipped it gingerly. The brandy warmed his throat as it descended down his esophagus.

“Othello, can I tell you something?”

“Anything, sir.”

The old man sat up in bed, his eyes moistening, lip trembling.

“Years ago, I could’ve gotten married. I met this beautiful society girl at the yacht club. She had grace and poise. She didn’t take shit from anyone, either, especially me. Thought I’d met the one. Her name was Beatrice, and she was everything I’d hope for,” Mansley said.

“What happened to her, sir?”

Mansley coughed and stiffened.

“She wouldn’t wait for me. I delayed the courtship because I wanted to make more money. Wanted to make the Rutland Beacon the greatest paper in the state. So demanding. Working late at night. Meeting clients during the day. This newspaper consumed my time. In the end, Beatrice thought I wasn’t interested and moved on. Married an investment banker and moved to Martha’s Vineyard. The years haven’t been kind to me, Othello.”

“My condolences on your lost love, sir.”

Mansley acknowledged his butler’s empathy with a slight wave of his hand. He dried his eyes and sunk deeper into the pillow.

“That was a long time ago,” Mansley said, shifting his tone from teary recollection to tough indifference. “We’re all at the mercy of the past, sooner or later.”

“Quite right, sir.”

The butler turned off the light and departed in silence. A moonbeam fell through the window, across the room, pouring over the satin sheets and four-poster bed where Alfred Mansley slept, curled like an infant, drifting dreamlike where Beatrice awaited, her arms outstretched.