Profane prayer

Foul language should neither offend nor shock a person who has spent any amount of time around a newsroom.

And so, when the night content production manager of The Baltimore Sun used some salty language during a workshop I attended the other day, the word did not surprise me.

But not because the term was one I've heard hundreds of times... and said hundreds of times... while in the daily production of a newspaper.

Cover of "Occupation Foole," on which
George Carlin uses the "bad word"
in a routine called "Filthy Words."

(Because this is a family blog, I won't use the word, but just know that George Carlin once called it "the heavy, the one you save for the end of the argument.")

The word didn't surprise me because I've heard more and more people use it in the same way John McIntyre used it.

The workshop McIntyre, a long-time copy editor, was leading was on skeptical editing. He said the copy editor is one who should come to the prose dispassionately, unlike an assigning editor or reporter, who views the work the same way a proud father watches his son score a touchdown.

No, the copy editor should be the devil's advocate. He or she should be the one to ask the awkward question. When the whole group says, "Yes, this is a great idea," the copy editor is the one who should, however the method, say, "Wait, something's not right here."

Unfortunately, copy editors are no longer viewed as important cogs in the machinations of news.

They're viewed as expensive: Many are older, a benefit to the green reporter learning a beat, but a curse to the budget-conscious media conglomerate that has an ever shrinking profit margin. Besides, the higher-ups think, that college-trained newbie should know how to use an archive and be familiar with proper grammar, style and punctuation.

McIntyre told the workshop that at one time, The Sun had 54 copy editors. Today, including him, there are four.

With this in mind, I asked John how a copy editor, who sometimes also has to fill the role of assigning editor at smaller newspapers, maintains the skeptical view needed to properly edit a story.

He sighed. Hands resting on his cane, he closed his eyes a moment, then looked toward the ceiling of The Sun's first-floor conference room.

He said that once the workshop was over, he would head upstairs to the newsroom and copy edit items for the bulldog edition of the Sunday paper, which is printed early. He then would slot the Saturday newspaper (which means deciding what stories go on what page), as well as copy editing some of those stories.

Along with that, he would be responsible for proofing pages. And as he was also slot for the Sunday paper, he said he'd have to start copy editing and handing out stories for that edition. And when that's completed, proofs of the business section awaited him.

"Then, at 1 o'clock, as I get home to my bourbon, I'll take a sip and pray that I didn't ---- anything up," he said.

As I stated, the way he used the swear is not the first time I've heard someone in the industry mix curse word with prayer.

And that's a sad commentary. For decades, it's been do more with less.

There should be people checking stories for more than just grammar and punctuation, if they even do that. There also should be copy editors to check for context, credibility, chronology and bias.

The wall of The Sun's conference room
contains front pages dating back to the
newspaper's founding in 1837

How many hundreds of people, be they print readers or web readers, are relying on the trustworthiness of your news organization?

Instead, more and more newspapers are slashing copy editing positions and asking reporters to self-edit before the story gets posted online.

Trust is the only real bond you have with the reading public. Journalists of bygone eras knew this, learning it over more than a hundred years of trial and error.

Working without a net can lead to some big losses in trust... and lawsuits.

One would think a copy editor's salary and health care is cheaper in the long run than being hauled into court. It's akin to taking out an insurance policy.

No. Apparently prayer should suffice.

Charm City

Flag of the City of Baltimore

As a kid, I used to sit on the living room floor when my grandfather and grandmother would come over Sunday evenings after they'd had their dinner at the restaurant down the street.

Poppy would tell stories about growing up in East Baltimore, about the "way things used to be" in the city. Baba would nod her head in agreement, recalling a time gone by when things were simpler, pristine and gentile. My parents, who grew up in that neighborhood and were teenagers when the 1968 riots convinced their families to move to the county, would also chime in.

I'd listen to those tales about the neighborhood that used to be called "Little Bohemia" because of it's heavy concentration of Czech families with names like Cvach and Dolivka and Bocek and Kotesovec and Pinkas.

Street names would be thrown about. Places like Ashland, Madison and Monument. My mother grew up on North Montford Avenue, next door to my great-grandparents and great aunt. My father grew up a few blocks away on North Kenwood Avenue, just a couple blocks south of the railroad tracks.

St. Wenceslaus Church, Baltimore

And you'd hear about the trials and tribulations of being an altar boy at St. Wenceslaus. The beautiful old church was built, partly, by members of my family on both sides, too.

And my grandfather, grandmother, great aunt, mother, father, aunts and uncles all went to grade school at St. Wenceslaus. The youth would go to the school's Lyceum on weekends, where they'd play basketball, bowl or dance on the rooftop dance floor.

And all was so great and so grand and so wonderful back then.

Then I asked what happened to change it. Why wasn't I going to St. Wenceslaus for church and school? Why wasn't I living blocks away from where my parents grew up?

The riots, they'd tell me.

"The neighborhood changed," they'd say. "It wasn't safe there anymore."

Ten-year-old me accepted this.

Now, I'm 36. I've read up on the sociological history of America and Baltimore, in particular. First off, I know that things in those years gone by weren't so pristine and wonderful. And I also know that, despite the tone behind what they had to say, it's more than just "riots" and "change" and "safety" that was at play back then.

Maryland state flag

Those factors definitely were a part, but so was the loss of good-paying manufacturing jobs in America's industrial towns, like Baltimore.

There are other factors that would take an entire doctoral thesis to even begin scratching the surface of.

Exhibit A: Addiction.

In short, it's more complicated than just "riots" and "race" and "safety" and even "jobs" and "addiction."

Charm City, despite its recent attempts at believing in itself, is still struggling with hopelessness. It's sort of like Pagliacci: Smiling on the outside with its Inner Harbor and historic sites and great eateries, but crying on the inside with its drugs and poverty and despair.

The investigation into the death of Freddie Gray, and the resulting public protests and riots are the manifestation of that.

Lord knows the prozac the city and region needs to settle its manic depression won't take effect overnight. It doesn't seem like anyone can even find the prescription pad.

But I know it won't come by marginalizing people, or by destroying property.

I've not lived in the state, let alone the metro area, for more than 15 years, but I still consider Baltimore my home.

And I hope the "way things used to be" does, in fact, become real life one day for the city I love.

Her own language

"Hanny na na," says my daughter, who is just shy of 2 years old.

That means Halloween.

"Hama ni mani," she says.

That means Susquehanna.

"Howbop," she says.

That is short for "How 'bout them Cowboys?" It's also become the term for the Cowboys.

"Ra ra," she says

That means Ravens.

"Oh wals," she says.

That means Orioles, hon.

"Bigabba gabba goes," she says.

That means Peppermint Kandy Kids, what has become her favorite album.

"Mina mina," she says.

That means Grandma, my mother-in-law.

"Danny," she says.

That means Granny, my mother.

"Gockyew," she says.

That means glasses.

"Awk a gawk," she says.

That means Local on the 8s.

"Pee que," she says.

That means pictures, usually those on an iPhone.

"Tatee," she says.

That means Sophie, her name.

"I ee ee," she says.

That's the most important one. I means, "I love you."

I ee ee, Tatee.

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

When I first heard this song nearly a decade ago, I thought it was about a guy who saw love of another as the one, true faith.

But recently, I listened to this song again and came to a different interpretation.

As some of you are aware, I just went back to working the night shift for a daily newspaper.

For decades now, newspapers have been forced to reinvent themselves to varying degrees of success. No one really knows exactly where they are going. But it's for damn sure the old way is breathing its last. 

Some of us, though, are too in love with the newspaper life to simply give up. 

Though uncertain, we're sticking with her. 

Listen up

The scratchy static of the police scanner.

The sports guy loudly asking, "What was the score?"

The ticks and clicks of dozens of keyboards and mice.

I'm back in a daily newsroom.

I started as Sunday editor at The Herald-Mail in Hagerstown, Md., on March 31. My job is to plan and execute the Sunday edition, as well as picking up copy editing and layout duties the rest of the week.

Before I can plan and execute, I have to learn the system here. That's nothing new; I've worked at five other newspapers in the past 14 years. Each place had its own quirky computer system and house style.

But for the past year, I worked for a business weekly based in Harrisburg, Pa. My week was split between the home office and the "satellite office" down Interstate 83 in York.

While relatively pleasant, neither location felt like a newsroom.

And so, as I end my third night on the job, I take in the sounds, sights and... yes, smells... of a daily newspaper's headquarters.

It feels good.

Drying out

The clothes in the dryer don't know when their cycle is over.

They just keep riding the spin until it stops. 

Sometimes, the towel or shirt is comfortably pressed against the spinning cylinder. Sometimes they are falling, only to crash to the bottom of the dryer. 

Occasionally, they're mixed up with a dirty old sock. Sometimes, they're with some silky unmentionables. 

And, sometimes, someone might stick another quarter in the machine to keep things going. 

But, eventually, the cycle will end. The dryer will stop spinning. And the clothes will be removed, fluffed, folded and put away. 

Clearing

I left the house at 9:41 p.m. and before making it to the end of the street, I encountered the fog.

The cliche is "thick as pea soup."

I'd argue this ground cloud was on par with clam chowder. 

Even after leaving the neighborhood, there were dense patches on the winding, hilly road. 

A little more than an hour later, I was driving back. 

The fog was gone. In fact, the sky had become so clear, I could see my old pal, Orion. Jupiter (I think) was glowing brightly, too.

And I could see farther down the winding, hilly road. 

It struck me: What a difference an hour makes.