Getting in on the top floor?

I've put a lot of effort into improving my page design skills. I used to do nothing but your standard front page - a normal-looking centerpiece with elements surrounding it - but over the past six months or so, I've tried to improve the look of my centerpieces. A big photo, a headline and a story just weren't cutting it for me.

As you can see, I've tried to play with photos and text a little more. The Super Bowl page was the most ambitious project yet; it took me the better part of a full week to get it all done.

But lately, I've begun to wonder: Does any of it matter?

Maybe it's merely a case of feelings of inadequacy. Take a look at some of the work exhibited over at Sports Designers. You'll see my Big Cactus layout was there, along with stuff from lots of other folks.

I can easily admit that the other work on the page is better (in some cases, considerably better) than mine. Particularly of note is the work done by the folks at the Arizona Republic. Take note of the quote from Luke Knox:

These daily Super Bowl sections are being designed by me, Joey Kirk and Ayrel Clark, with direction from Bill Pliske.

That's three people with help from a fourth. Not only is it 3.5 people, but 3.5 people that are, presumably, talented and trained in the art of graphic design. Otherwise they probably wouldn't be in the position they are.

Me? I've got no formal training, only 10 years of seeing things I liked and seeing things I didn't. And I pushed away a week's worth of work, diminishing any writing assignments or postponing long-term projects, all to do two pages.

Maybe it's more than feelings of inadequacy. Maybe it's a feeling like none of it really does matter.

If you've paid any attention to the media industry, you've seen that newspapers as a whole are in the toilet: predictions of doom (like here), layoffs and cutbacks galore (like here, here and here, just in the past week) and a falling reputation among the beancounters (stock charts for publishing's big boys like Belo, Gannett, McClatchy, N.Y. Times Co., Scripps, Tribune and Washington Post Co.).

And none of these skills that I'm trying to develop is very portable. The design of a static newspaper page doesn't really equate to the design of a dynamic webpage - not to mention learning entirely new programs like Flash and DreamWeaver.

Is it all worth it? I don't know. In my happiest of dreams, I like to think I'm bettering myself as a newspaperman - the ultimate compliment for someone who could do it all.

Maybe in a few years it won't much matter.

Plaintiff: F--k your rights

People never fail to amaze.

From the Washington Post yesterday: James Bogden (who happens to be a public health educator and anti-smoking advocate) has filed suit against four local restaurants - one of which appears to the right - to force the restaurants to go smoke-free. He claims that after suffering a mild heart attack, he cannot be anywhere near second-hand smoke but should not be limited to which restaurants he can patronize. He believes he is protected by the Americans With Disabilities Act.

Cripes.

If I'm understanding this correctly - and I believe I am - the rights of one trumps the rights of many. If I'm a smoker (and I'm not), then my right to smoke should be taken away because this guy says so? Because of his heart condition, my right to smoke is simply cast aside?

How on earth does this make sense?

Look, I'm sorry the guy had a heart attack; I don't wish ill health on anyone. I'm glad to see he's fully recovered and has continued to live and succeed in life. But I fail to see how his condition should impact me.

For a moment, imagine he wins. Clyde's goes smoke-free. Maybe Clyde's loses a big chunk of its business and, after some time, is forced to close. If I want to enjoy one of my favorite hangout spots, I'm now driving to Tysons Corner or into the city.

Where, then, is my recourse? Can I litigate against this man for essentially closing one of my favorite restaurants as well?

Things happen in life, not all of them good ones. Sometimes we get a really raw deal. We adjust and we move on.

It seems like such a simple concept.

And hiding behind the ADA is shameful. The law was set up for people whose lives have been impacted by a real, life-changing disability, not a mild heart attack. It's a good law and shouldn't be subjected to such perversion.

Let's call this what it is: One person's attempt to advance his personal ideology; as he steps forward, he tramples others' rights in the process.

Have you no shame, Mr. Bogden? Have you no consideration for how others may want to run their lives? Or is your life the only one that matters?

Hypothetical questions, of course. The answers are clear enough already.

It's that damned old rodeo

I went to a rodeo for the first time on Saturday night. My wife was out of town - staff retreat for her and the other Enzi staffers on the Eastern Shore - so I had to find a way to piss away a Saturday night.

She's gotten me in the habit of watching PBR on Sunday nights; we watch in hi-def until the hour gets too late and we're forced to retreat to the bedroom. After weeks of watching this, it begins to pique my interest.

So I'm in the office late on Friday - that's what we do, after all - and one of the photographers begins talking about this rodeo event the next day. I figure it's too late to get media credentials, so I go ahead and just buy a ticket.

It would be a stretch to say it's the best $30 I've spent. But certainly among the best $30 I've spent in the past year.

The run-up to the event itself was, pound for pound, better than NASCAR. I happened to sit next to four independent rotating lights that supplied the atmosphere for the pre-game show (so to speak). After they stopped, we were treated to an invocation and the National Anthem; too often, the former in NASCAR seems rushed and drivers are vaguely aware of it. On Saturday, it felt natural, far more so than anything I had felt at a NASCAR race.

Then various people were introduced by the emcee: the bullfighters (who, by the way, earn every freaking bit of their pay), the cowboys, the rodeo clown - a largely cermonial role that banters with the arena announcers - and the in-house color guy, a former PBR champion.

All under the cover of darkness, save for a lone spotlight pointing on these guys.

The event itself was very, very cool. The riders went off in sections, as they called them, and each was fascinating to watch. Often enough, TV doesn't do justice to what you see in person; in this case, TV had done an adequate job preparing me. It's a violent sport, to be sure.

Eight seconds goes by in a flash. I've learned that six minutes really isn't a long time unless you're on a wrestling mat; then it takes forever. The eight seconds in PBR - the difference between a scoring ride and a non-scoring one - is an eternity when you're on the back of a pissed off bull.

In one round, we saw a competitor injured when he was thrown for a loop (figuartively and literally); in an early round, we saw the bullfighters have to get in and push a bull away from a cowboy laying prone on the ground.

Watching these guys go out, time after time, was amazing. In wrestling (the non-professional kind), you have a limited chance of getting hurt; most moves are conducted low to the ground and throws aren't usually seen, even in the college ranks. But these cowboys, damn...

Imagine getting tossed off a 1,200-pound bull when you're five feet in the air.

No, thank you.

In all, it was a great night. I only wish my wife would have been there with me... oh well, she'll be home tomorrow.

At which time I'll relegate her with all my tales of a night at the rodeo.

Valium for Hank?

Hank's my buddy. I'm certain that's been made quite clear over the posts here.

We have a nightly ritual now. I tuck my wife in bed and head onto the computer.

Hank accompanies me.

Always.

He comes in here and, if I'm lucky, gets distracted by his food and realizes he's perennially hungry. Like this very moment, actually.

But more likely, he wanders around wondering where his attention is. Tonight, it's more understandable; I spent the evening in the office doing what we do. So I wasn't home. Even when I am home (most nights), I'll be sitting on the recliner. At least half the time, Hank is sitting on one armrest or the other.

Just earlier tonight - while updating the wine blog with a tangential observation - Hank meandered around the computer room, calling attention to himself.

"Meow. Meow. Meow. Meeoww? Meow. Meow. Meow. Meowwwww."

When he gets desperate - which is quite often - he leans on the chair to stand tall and uses his free front paw to tap me on the shoulder. He's done this with Lindsay as well.

I keep asking if it's time for bed and all I get back is a blank stare.

So he's in here raising hell and Grace - usually sound asleep by now - is up and about as well. When I got home, she was sitting in a corner in the bathroom, a place I've never seen her. While taking out my contacts, she decided it would be cool to grab a drink from the recently-used tub.

This despite the fact that her water bowl is nearly overflowing.

I guess I just don't get cats.

More photos

Before you read this, read the post below or simply click this link.

More photos from Thursday:

The six Honor Guard members that carried the casket to its burial place.

The iconic rows of headstones that comprise Arlington National Cemetery.

Looking back to D one last time.