http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nj_KGSQ6MhY&feature=youtu.be
Here Are Some Things and Stuff by Trevor Vader
Monday, June 10, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Process Writing for the Thing I Wrote About Little Green Limousine
I'm actually pretty happy with how this piece turned out. I was very nervous because my two of my other story ideas didn't pan out and I was totally floundering. I was running out of time, and I decided to interview Steve because I've known him for awhile. Full disclosure: I'm friends with both of his kids, and I've chatted with him about a wide variety of subjects in the past. I think the piece still managed to be pretty impartial despite all that.
This piece was much easier to write than the other ones (perhaps because I know Steve so well). At times it degenerated into a game of "How Many Times Can Trevor Misspell the Word Limousine?" (answer: too many), but it flowed out pretty smoothly. In reading the comments, I'm a little disappointed that I didn't articulate my theme in a clearer manner. This piece is about Steve's transformation as a businessman, and I wish I had gotten that transformation across better. Any suggestions in this area would be much appreciated.
I have done some additional reporting since Monday. I interviewed K College's Provost (a repeat customer) and I talked to one of the other drivers, a guy named Dale. Dale has two(!) master's degrees and was a big honcho in the Health Department in Kalamazoo. Fascinating guy. I plan on incorporating the stuff i got from them into my next draft.
This piece was much easier to write than the other ones (perhaps because I know Steve so well). At times it degenerated into a game of "How Many Times Can Trevor Misspell the Word Limousine?" (answer: too many), but it flowed out pretty smoothly. In reading the comments, I'm a little disappointed that I didn't articulate my theme in a clearer manner. This piece is about Steve's transformation as a businessman, and I wish I had gotten that transformation across better. Any suggestions in this area would be much appreciated.
I have done some additional reporting since Monday. I interviewed K College's Provost (a repeat customer) and I talked to one of the other drivers, a guy named Dale. Dale has two(!) master's degrees and was a big honcho in the Health Department in Kalamazoo. Fascinating guy. I plan on incorporating the stuff i got from them into my next draft.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Steve and His Little Green Limousines
980 words
Intended for The Index
Steve Gibson is a renaissance man whose resume is a mile long: author, podcaster, business owner, digital media freelancer, commercial pilot, and school board member. He’s an intellectual. He’s a free-thinker. He’s a seeker. And now, he’s a limo driver.
Intended for The Index
Steve Gibson is a renaissance man whose resume is a mile long: author, podcaster, business owner, digital media freelancer, commercial pilot, and school board member. He’s an intellectual. He’s a free-thinker. He’s a seeker. And now, he’s a limo driver.
But
Steve doesn’t drive just any limousine: his are smaller and have a distinctly
green hue. Steve owns and operates the Little Green Limousine Company. Steve
crunches numbers, books clients, picks them up in a white Prius V, and drives
them wherever they need to go: Chicago, Detroit, and pretty much anywhere in
between. And they ride in style, too. One might think that the term “luxury
hybrid” is an oxymoron, but it’s not; a six-foot tall man can sit comfortably
in the back seat with plenty of leg- and head-room to spare. The new-car smell
is still there.
Steve runs
his business from his home in Parchment, Michigan in an office down the stairs
and past the water heater. It’s a large rectangular room packed with
confusing-looking audio equipment from his podcasting days. Steve’s massive,
CEO-appropriate desk sits to the right of the door, next to a bookshelf stuffed
with books on atheism and skepticism, two of his favorite topics. He just read
a book on traffic engineering. “It was fascinating,” he says. There are papers
everywhere.
Steve has
the relaxed-yet-serious bearing of someone who has been self-employed for many
years. He sports a shaven head with a few days worth of stubble and a green
polo bearing the name of his company. He leans back in a tall black swivel
chair, speaking deliberately and taking long pauses to make sure he uses the
perfect words.
Steve grew
up in this house, and he moved back in when his parents passed away. Steve also
inherited his first business from his parents: the financially troubled C.J.
Gibson Office Supply Company. Throughout his twenties, Steve rebranded the
company as C.J. Gibson Office Direct and fought his way into the black.
During this
time, Steve probably would have laughed at you if you had told him he would be
running an environmentally-friendly limo service. He admits to being “late to
the table” in accepting global warming. Furthermore, he had “unwavering faith
that human ingenuity could outweigh any of the atrocities we commit against the
Earth.” He liked Ayn Rand. He was a free-market, individualist kind of guy.
But during the nineties, Steve began to
recognize his own cognitive dissonance. He read Malcolm Gladwell. He questioned
his own biases. Slowly, gradually, his worldview changed and became much more
complex. Profit became less and less important. He sold Office Direct in 1998
to pursue more meaningful work.
That
meaningful work would happen at 102
North Riverview Drive, across the street from a
weather-beaten Marathon Station. There, he and his then-wife Julie ran People
Power Productions, a digital media company dedicated to preserving people’s
memories for posterity. They made DVD slideshows of photographs for funerals,
graduations, and everything in between. They helped people remember. They
brought comfort to my family when my grandmother died. They helped people
remember. They had a good run, ten years, from 2000 to 2010 when the growth of
technology finally rendered his services obsolete. Steve knew it would happen
eventually, but he didn’t particularly care. He liked the work. It was
meaningful.
After
People Power Productions packed up and left 102 North Riverview vacant, Steve
did some thinking and some freelance work. For two years, he kept a vigilant
eye out for needs waiting to be filled. When he realized that there was no
concierge service targeted towards senior citizens in Kalamazoo, he smelled opportunity. He did
research and found that the market had an open spot for him. “There was nothing
available besides Town Cars,” he says. “Business people and seniors didn’t feel
like they needed a formal limousine.”
Opportunity
in his sight, Steve purchased his first Little Green Limousine in 2012 with an
eye towards reducing carbon footprint and cutting costs. Ironically, Steve has
found that the higher mile-per-gallon rating of the Prius doesn’t make that
much of a difference: “It saves, literally, a couple of bucks per trip.”
But Steve
isn’t necessarily in it for the money. He says that “once you let go of ego and
realize that we’re all interdependent, absolute profit is not the ultimate
goal.” He views himself as a servant of other people, and he serves happily. He
enjoys his customers, and they enjoy him. Many of them forego the Prius’s XM
Radio to talk with Steve because, well, he’s an interesting guy. He brings his
wealth of knowledge and immense curiosity to the driver’s seat, and he’s had
some fantastic talks with his passengers. He learns from them constantly.
That’s not to say that the Little
Green Limousine Company isn’t a profitable endeavor. Steve has a metric ton of
graphs and charts stored on his computer that show a sharp increase in business
over the last year. He also runs his business with an incredibly low overhead
because he does everything himself: the website, the logo, and the promotions
are all his handiwork. He keeps things lean, and that keeps prices low. In
fact, Steve’s business model is working so well that he just added another
Prius to his “fleet,” and he’s had to hire three other drivers on a part-time
basis to deal with all his bookings, although he still does about eighty percent
of the driving.
Steve says he chose to use Priuses
because they represent a “more sensitive and practical choice in terms of
global impact.” But Steve’s sensitivity and practicality are having a local
impact, too; a little over fifty percent of his business comes from repeat
customers. People enjoy riding in the Little Green Limousines, and Steve enjoys
his customers. For a businessman interested in making a difference as well as a
profit, this is success.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
My Show and Tell: "Can I get in the Van?" by Erick Lyle
http://www.vice.com/read/can-i-get-in-the-van-000288-v20n4
This is easily my favorite piece of journalism that I've read in the past few months. Basically, the writer is assigned to write a piece on the two reunited versions of the famed punk rock/experimental/psychedelic band Black Flag. The writer, a musician, hears that Black Flag is auditioning bassists and decides to hitchhike his way across the country to Texas where the auditions are held. He melts the faces of the guys in the band, and he practices with them for a week. They offer him a spot in the band. He turns them down and goes back to New York, bass in hand.
I think this is such a fascinating piece because the writer put himself completely into the story. He showed a Hunter S. Thompson-esque disregard for his original assignment (write about a reunited band) and decided to dive into the story completely. In doing so, he is able to provide a perspective no other journalist will ever get: one from inside the band. We can see the criteria guitar player Greg Ginn has in mind for players (Do you smoke weed?") and it gives the reader an amazing insight into the musical process of how this band jams, man. Furthermore, it's fascinating from a narrative standpoint. It's a damn good story.
It also raises some interesting questions. Did Erick Lyle violate journalistic ethics? Is there too much of him in the piece? Does his involvement render the piece ineffective. I don't think so, but I'd like to hear other opinions.
This is easily my favorite piece of journalism that I've read in the past few months. Basically, the writer is assigned to write a piece on the two reunited versions of the famed punk rock/experimental/psychedelic band Black Flag. The writer, a musician, hears that Black Flag is auditioning bassists and decides to hitchhike his way across the country to Texas where the auditions are held. He melts the faces of the guys in the band, and he practices with them for a week. They offer him a spot in the band. He turns them down and goes back to New York, bass in hand.
I think this is such a fascinating piece because the writer put himself completely into the story. He showed a Hunter S. Thompson-esque disregard for his original assignment (write about a reunited band) and decided to dive into the story completely. In doing so, he is able to provide a perspective no other journalist will ever get: one from inside the band. We can see the criteria guitar player Greg Ginn has in mind for players (Do you smoke weed?") and it gives the reader an amazing insight into the musical process of how this band jams, man. Furthermore, it's fascinating from a narrative standpoint. It's a damn good story.
It also raises some interesting questions. Did Erick Lyle violate journalistic ethics? Is there too much of him in the piece? Does his involvement render the piece ineffective. I don't think so, but I'd like to hear other opinions.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
The Church in the Basement
1,828 Words
Kalamazoo Gazette Faith Section
The Church in the
Basement
About a
quarter of a mile down Winchell
Avenue, there is a large brown-brick church with a
wooden cross in the yard facing all who drive by. Inside the door, there is a grandfatherly
greeter named Richard handing out bulletins and hugs. To the right of the
foyer, there is an imposing sanctuary with rows of hard wooden pews and another
cross standing behind a raised pulpit. The sanctuary is completely empty, and
this often confuses first-time visitors, until they are directed downstairs by
Richard.
Travelling
down the two flights of stairs reveals a basement lit by fluorescent lights
where thirty or so gray-haired men and women are milling around and finding
seats as a younger man with an immaculately-trimmed beard plays guitar,
fingerpicking his way through one of today’s hymns one last time before the
service. There are plenty of battered, mint-colored chairs arranged two-deep in
a half-circle, flanked on both sides by large white banners painted in a wide
array of colors with people, rainbows and all manners of LGBTQ pride symbols.
At the center of this explosion of color is a table covered with a pristine
white cloth holding two candles with a tasteful bronze cross in the center. Off
to the side, there is a miniature statue of a rainbow-colored phoenix rising
from the flames.
There’s a
man behind the altar, about fifty, bald, with glasses. He’s clad in a dark-blue
shirt with a blue-striped tie and grey pants, and he would look like a
well-dressed accountant were it not for the fact that he is standing behind an
altar wearing a rainbow-colored stole emblazoned prominently with custom gay
pride symbols.
That man is Ken Arthur, pastor of Phoenix
Community Church.
He is gay, and so are about eighty percent of his parishioners. Most members of
his flock are between fifty and seventy, and they are a delightful cast of
characters.
On the left
side of this semicircle of chairs is Marvel, a retired woman after left behind
her Bible Baptist upbringing because she “hated getting in trouble for
thinking” and came to Phoenix
twenty-five years ago.
Mark is
sitting behind Marvel. Mark is a gay man in his forties and a former Catholic
who left the church in disgust one Sunday after the priest gave a gay-bashing
sermon from the book of Leviticus. The experience soured him on faith, and he
considers himself an agnostic now, but that hasn’t stopped him from coming to Phoenix for twenty years.
He still sings hymns and asks for prayers during the service despite his
agnosticism.
Myrna
walks in five minutes before the service begins. Myrna is an older woman in her
seventies with laugh lines that testify to her readiness to smile. She came
here years ago to learn more about gay people, and, in the process, learned
that she was a lesbian herself when she fell in love with another member of the
congregation.
At six
o’clock every Sunday night, they meet in this basement, a space they rent from
the Kalamazoo Church of Disciples, a faith community brave enough and liberal
enough to accept Phoenix’s community with open arms. No one seems to mind
meeting in the basement; after all, a basement beats a closet every time.
Besides,
basements are nothing new to Phoenix’s
parishioners. In fact, they started out in a basement. On Ash Wednesday in
February of 1988, eighteen people met in Pastor Cyril Stevenson’s basement for Phoenix’s inaugural
service. Cyril had been dismissed from the United Church of Christ for being
gay, and he decided to start Phoenix
with co-Pastor Melanie Morrison in order to provide a safe place for LGBTQ men
and women to worship. For a long time, theirs was the only church that accepted
LGBTQ people.
After that
initial meeting, the church bounced from basement to rented room to basement,
staying on the margins of the faith community until acceptance began to prevail
in the mid-nineties, and Phoenix
was accepted back into the United Church of Christ after a long process of
accreditation. After the leadership of other UCC churches in the area examined Phoenix under a microscope, there was a vote, and Phoenix was welcomed back
into the fold with open arms.
Despite
finding a degree of acceptance, they continued to stay in rented spaces for
financial reasons. Small churches always live on the edge when it comes to
making rent and paying salaries, and Phoenix
is no exception. Even at their height of membership, the community never
numbered more than sixty, so it was always a struggle to make rent. Inevitably,
disputes over money began to arise, and a gulf that was too wide to be bridged
grew between two groups within the church. In 2007, a third of the congregation
left to form another church.
But it’s a
difficult to kill a phoenix, and the church clung to life, continuing to
provide community to those who had been ostracized for the sexual orientation.
One person who sought out that community was current Pastor, Ken Arthur. Ken
left his faith behind when he went to college because he was unable to
reconcile the idea of a loving God with the idea of hellfire and damnation.
After coming out at age thirty, he came to Phoenix in 1996 seeking a support system to
aid him in his self-discovery. Over the course of four or five years, Ken’s
skepticism gradually melted away, and he came to affirm the divinity of Jesus
Christ.
To further
explore his newfound spirituality, Ken decided to enroll in the Chicago
Theological Seminary in 2007. While he was there, he received a Master’s in
Religious Studies rather than a Divinity degree, because he “definitely didn’t
want to be a pastor.”
Within a year, Ken became Phoenix’s pastor. Because of the split,
Phoenix needed
an interim pastor, and Ken was asked to step because of his time at the
Seminary. His congregation liked him so much that they made him the full-time
pastor in 2010. Because Ken was a member for so long, there isn’t much of a
hierarchy between pastor and flock. The congregants are quick to mention this,
often excitedly. “Feel free to talk to Ken. He was one of us for a long time.”
There are no divisions here. He might be the head, but he is still a part of
the body.
Because of
this, Ken doesn’t appear perturbed when the clock reads 6:00 and people are
still chatting and making their rounds. He waits patiently, going over notes
until people find their seats. When things settle down, he motions to Frank, an
elderly gentleman wearing a conservative blue dress shirt, and Frank uses a
candle at the end of a long golden handle to light the candles on the altar,
signifying that it is time to begin.
The service
begins with a call to worship based on Psalm 148. Pastor Ken exhorts his
congregation to “Praise the Great Spirit from the Heavens” and they respond “Praise
the Holy One from the skies above.”
It’s the
Sunday after Arbor Day, so Ken invites Jim up to read the poem “Let the trees
be consulted” by John Wright. Jim, a former paramedic in his forties, reads
beautifully. With passion evident in his voice, he recites “Let lumber be
treasured like gold/let chainsaws be played like saxophones,” setting the tone
for the environmentally-focused service. Everyone raises their voice to sing a
few hymns that celebrate the divine beauty of nature.
After a few
songs, the hymnals are set on the floor and the members of the congregation
share their joys and concerns for the week. This week, the joys outnumber the
concerns. There is celebration of retirement, of children being born, and
flowers budding. Though there are fewer concerns, they are heavy. The piano
player, Linda, had to kick her alcoholic brother out of her house because he
recently fell off the wagon. People are hurting and dying, and the members of Phoenix share their grief
freely with one another. There is no filter, no effort to put up a front and
disguise hurt here. As Myrna later puts it, “The prayers are so much more real
here.”
Once the
sharing ends, the prayers commence. Everyone closes their eyes and joins hands,
giving thanks to God for their joys and entreating God for help with their
sorrows. This prayer can last for a hand-crampingly long time, but no one
minds. Cramped hands are just a side-effect of caring.
Once every
joy and concern has been addressed, the Phoenicians recite a gender-neutral
adaptation of the Disciples Prayer. Their voices are strong, though people read
at different speeds, giving the prayer an off-kilter feel.
Ken calls
up Katy and Mona to sing a song, and they give a spirited rendition of the
Indigo Girls tune “A Hammer and a Nail,” accompanied by Jonathan, the
guitarist. Such rapid switchbacks between religious and secular happen often at
Phoenix, often
rapidly enough to give an unaccustomed visitor whiplash.
As the last
note dies out, Ken walks up to begin his message. Ken doesn’t have the
prototypical preacher’s voice. His is a wispy tenor, not a booming baritone,
and he speaks without amplification because the soundboard has been acting up
lately. His is a voice that is easily drowned out by anyone with a microphone,
or even just a determined, loud man holding a sign on a street corner. He is
not loud enough to compete with the Pat Robertson of the world. Yet when he
preaches the Gospel, he still grabs you. The quiet passion in his voice is
palpable, like a cup running over quietly.
In fact, overflowing
is the subject of Ken’s message. He reads from the Book of John, emphasizing
Jesus’s call for his disciples to “Love one another. As I have
loved you, so you must love one another. By this
everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Let
love overflow. Work to realize the Kingdom
of God here on Earth.
Work for peace and hope and justice. It is stirring. People are moved, in
spirit as well as body: a construction paper poster with a crude tree
glued on it boasts 254 hours of community service, 11 trees planted, and 4
letters written as a part of the church’s Arbor Day campaign for environmental
stewardship. This is a place of dirty fingernails and grass stains.
Ken closes
his remarks, and Frank extinguishes the flame on the altar candles as everyone
sings one more song, a hymn penned by a former member that reminds the members
of Phoenix to
be the light in the world even as the ceremony ends.
Ken gives
his benediction, and everyone passes the peace. There are no awkward handshakes
and mumbled peaceofChristbewithyous here; only hugs and conversation. People
linger a little, chatting for twenty or thirty minutes until it’s time trickle
out, ascending the steps out of the basement back into the world.
The Events of October Reading Response
This book was fascinating to me both as a reader and as someone looking to perfect their craft. I found myself unable to put The Events of October down and I read it in two marathon sessions even though I was a little sick to my stomach. It's pretty easy to alienate the reader when writing about something as awful as a murder-suicide, but Gail managed to tell the story in a manner that demanded my attention. Perhaps this is because the voice of the book is so passionate that it practically forces the reader to pay attention.
One reason I found this book so compelling is it's Middlemarch-like qualities. Gail gives George Eliot/Marian Evans a shout-out early-on, and her influence is pretty easy to see. Kalamazoo College is a lot like the town Middlemarch, in a way: it's a small, cloistered community where everyone knows everyone. And, like Middlemarch, The Events of October is chiefly concerned with the idea of community as a group that changes through constant interaction.
Furthermore, both books are careful to depict the members of their respective communities with great sympathy. Just as Eliot dives into the motives of every character in order to present them in a sympathetic light, Gail eschews judgment in favor of understanding, preferring to explain each subject's motivations. For instance, it would have been very easy to demonize Neenef's friends for their insistence upon a memorial for Neenef. However, the narration makes it clear that this is simply a natural by-product of their grief and trauma. Similarly, it would be easy to ridicule those who preferred to think of the murder-suicide as an isolated incident rather than a femicide indicative of a greater trend of male violence. Instead, Gail tells the reader that compartmentalizing such a traumatic event makes coping easier. Thus, we do not judge these people, even their viewpoint is somewhat pernicious.
This level of sympathy and empathy is quite impressive, and it's indicative of an immense amount of time spent getting to know subjects. We get the sense that the author really knows these people; thus, all of her assertions about motives seem completely valid because they stem from such a deep understanding of the subject. This is a journalistic standard to live up to.
I also thought of Nicholas Lemann's piece in Telling True Stories regarding the "idea track" of a piece of nonfiction. This book's idea track is apparent throughout, and there are lots of excellent "marriage moments." It really serves as a model for lining ideas up with experience.
One reason I found this book so compelling is it's Middlemarch-like qualities. Gail gives George Eliot/Marian Evans a shout-out early-on, and her influence is pretty easy to see. Kalamazoo College is a lot like the town Middlemarch, in a way: it's a small, cloistered community where everyone knows everyone. And, like Middlemarch, The Events of October is chiefly concerned with the idea of community as a group that changes through constant interaction.
Furthermore, both books are careful to depict the members of their respective communities with great sympathy. Just as Eliot dives into the motives of every character in order to present them in a sympathetic light, Gail eschews judgment in favor of understanding, preferring to explain each subject's motivations. For instance, it would have been very easy to demonize Neenef's friends for their insistence upon a memorial for Neenef. However, the narration makes it clear that this is simply a natural by-product of their grief and trauma. Similarly, it would be easy to ridicule those who preferred to think of the murder-suicide as an isolated incident rather than a femicide indicative of a greater trend of male violence. Instead, Gail tells the reader that compartmentalizing such a traumatic event makes coping easier. Thus, we do not judge these people, even their viewpoint is somewhat pernicious.
This level of sympathy and empathy is quite impressive, and it's indicative of an immense amount of time spent getting to know subjects. We get the sense that the author really knows these people; thus, all of her assertions about motives seem completely valid because they stem from such a deep understanding of the subject. This is a journalistic standard to live up to.
I also thought of Nicholas Lemann's piece in Telling True Stories regarding the "idea track" of a piece of nonfiction. This book's idea track is apparent throughout, and there are lots of excellent "marriage moments." It really serves as a model for lining ideas up with experience.
Long-overdue reading response to Telling True Stories That Was Supposed to be Done 7th Week
Better late than never? Right?
As usual, Telling True Stories proved to be an illuminating read. There were a lot of little "a-ha" moments interspersed throughout the text that were unique to their authors. But, I noticed one common theme popping up: the use of cinematic metaphors to describe good nonfiction writing. Whether explicit (like Ephron's "What Journalists Can Learn from Screenwriters") or using a phrase like "he also pulls the camera back, away from the tight shots of the road grader," they seem to permeate the discourse on narrative journalism.
Of course, this makes sense in the context of 20th- and 21st-century literature, as Adam Hochschild shows in his contrast between Middlemarch and The Great Gastby. Literature has become rooted in concrete images rather than reflection. This forces me to ask myself some unpleasant questions: do I focus too much on reflection? Is this what's bogging down my profile?
I tend to mix reflection and scene pretty evenly, which is great for personal essays but maybe not the best idea for writing journalism. Point taken: I need to focus more on scene and allow my journalistic endeavors to become more cinematic while maintaining some of my trademark reflection.
I was amazed at the way Hochschild rendered his scene in the printer's shop so artfully and vividly despite the seemingly-small amount of information available. Also, Louise Kiernan's paragraph about broken glass that required two professors and an expert speaks to the depth of research that is necessary for effective reporting. Clearly, I need to step up my research game as well.
Once again, sorry this is so late.
As usual, Telling True Stories proved to be an illuminating read. There were a lot of little "a-ha" moments interspersed throughout the text that were unique to their authors. But, I noticed one common theme popping up: the use of cinematic metaphors to describe good nonfiction writing. Whether explicit (like Ephron's "What Journalists Can Learn from Screenwriters") or using a phrase like "he also pulls the camera back, away from the tight shots of the road grader," they seem to permeate the discourse on narrative journalism.
Of course, this makes sense in the context of 20th- and 21st-century literature, as Adam Hochschild shows in his contrast between Middlemarch and The Great Gastby. Literature has become rooted in concrete images rather than reflection. This forces me to ask myself some unpleasant questions: do I focus too much on reflection? Is this what's bogging down my profile?
I tend to mix reflection and scene pretty evenly, which is great for personal essays but maybe not the best idea for writing journalism. Point taken: I need to focus more on scene and allow my journalistic endeavors to become more cinematic while maintaining some of my trademark reflection.
I was amazed at the way Hochschild rendered his scene in the printer's shop so artfully and vividly despite the seemingly-small amount of information available. Also, Louise Kiernan's paragraph about broken glass that required two professors and an expert speaks to the depth of research that is necessary for effective reporting. Clearly, I need to step up my research game as well.
Once again, sorry this is so late.
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