Death and the maiden: Mourning a fallen comrade.

The words in the e-mail’s subject line sent an icy shiver down my back.

Did you know her?

Past tense always equals bad news.

The message contained a link and that link sent me to a story about Calgary Herald reporter Michelle Lang being killed, along with four members of the Canadian Forces, while on assignment in Afghanistan. Michelle had accompanied the soldiers on a routine patrol to gather information for another story. Sadly, she became that story.

The person who sent me the link knew I worked at the Calgary Herald for eight months in 2007 and, to answer the question, yes, I knew her. At least in passing.

No one will admit it, but there is a distinct hierarchy at major daily newspapers. As a small-town boy in his first stint in the Big League, I certainly noticed it.

The news reporters had attitude, as if their every word was written in gold and sprinkled with star dust. Maybe you need that edge, that ego. Maybe that’s how you stay in The Show, by coming off as slightly superior to everyone else. I never once assumed that attitude through 20 years of journalism — perhaps that’s the reason the past tense is also now used in reference to my newspaper career.

I worked in the Herald’s Features department; most of my duties consisted of pagination. My desk was located on the outer fringes of Editorial, where the lowly worker bees toiled, turning the magic into black letters on a white page.

Reporters didn’t bother soiling their shoes by wandering into our area and so any relationship I had with Michelle Lang consisted mostly of nodding and smiling if we happened to pass in a hallway somewhere.

In fact, the only time we actually held a conversation was when she asked some preliminary questions about a story that fell under her beat as the Health reporter. That was before the Herald’s mucky-mucks nixed the story because it concerned an employee’s relative.

So yes, I knew Michelle Lang. And yet I didn’t know her.

But you don’t have to be friends with someone to mourn their untimely death. Journalists, by the very nature of their job demands, tend to be a brotherhood of sorts anyway, so to see one of us die like that is always going to hurt.

I’m not sure what a Health reporter was doing in a war zone, but I guess it doesn’t matter now. Because the bigger question is this: Why are Canadians in Afghanistan? Why are Canadians dying in Afghanistan?

The hawks among us are going to brandish their swords at this blasphemous thought, but there is no way to win the war on terrorism. Kill one insurgent/terrorist/scared young man, and 10 more step up to strap on the vests. What are you going to do, butcher them all?

Canada and the other coalition countries are doing little more than pissing on sparks while the forest fire bears down on them, destroying everything in its path.

It’s been nearly 40 years since the Vietnam War ended and yet the lessons learned there have obviously been forgotten. And the first lesson is this: Good people died and nobody won.

I’m saddened by the deaths of Michelle Lang and the four soldiers. I’m sickened by the thought that they won’t be the last.

Critical stumbles and other reasons why I laughed so hard milk came out my nose.

In his new biography of former New Zealand prime minister Helen Clark, Wellington journalist Dennis Welch notes that Kiwis “don’t understand humour.”

Whew! For a minute there I thought there was something wrong with me.

Humour, of course, is subjective. What tickles one person’s funny bone doesn’t necessarily turn someone else’s crank. My children, for instance, practically pee themselves at the mere thought of their father falling down. Me, not so much.

I like to think I laugh easily but I also appreciate a dollop of wit with my funny business. I’m not big on moronic, pie-in-the-face antics but a good double entendre always gets my juices flowing. As it were.

I consider the writers of Two and a Half Men to be masters of the double entendre, even if they do at times stray into the pie-faced territory of the single entendre.

And then I read this in the July 2 issue of the New Zealand Herald’s TimeOut section:

“We’ve yet to meet a single person who will admit to watching Two and a Half Men, yet every week it tops the country’s ratings for the 18-39 market . . . Who are these people and why are you watching this rubbish?”

No one puts their bylines on these kinds of editorial blurts, so I wasn’t sure where to target my wrath. And then I read Welch’s comment and realized, hey, the writer is a Kiwi.

And they just don’t get it.

An Aussie falling down? Hee-larry-ous. Someone talking about eating a woman’s carpet? Huh?

Actually, it goes deeper than that. The writer is a * trumpet fanfare * critic for a TV section. The writer — drumroll, please — needs to be “critical.” And by that I mean controversial. And by that I mean, “hey, look at me!”

I worked for three years with Famous Players, a Canadian theatre chain. I was a syndicated movie reviewer for 15 years. I’ve met a lot of “critics.” I liked very few of them.

You see, these people — all black bo-ho with their berets and messenger bags and French cigarettes and tight pants and pointy shoes (I am not making this shit up) — feel the urge to rise above the great uneducated masses.

For instance, if you love the same film millions of movie fans are going ga-ga over, then you are just one more voice in the chorus of approval. No one will remember your review because you are simply agreeing with everyone else.

However, should your review rip a movie to shreds (ideally because it can’t hold a projector bulb to the work of some 19th century Russian director), then people will be talking about your comments. They might very well want to string you up with a length of celluloid from Twilight, but at least you will have accomplished your goal — people talked about you. And by you, I mean the narcissitic wanker part of you.

Example:

In 1988, we were all eagerly awaiting the release of Willow, Ron Howard’s followup to such successes as Splash, Coccon and Gung Ho. And then Michael Walsh, writing in Vancouver’s The Province newspaper, slagged it. We in the industry were gutted. It’s Ron Howard, for chrissakes, Michael. You just kicked Opie in the balls.

That’s right: the day the review appeared, everyone was nattering on about Michael Walsh. They weren’t talking about Willow. (The fact that, when it came right down to it, Michael was correct about this movie didn’t save him from, soon after, being shifted out of the paper’s Entertainment section and into a copy editor’s desk, where he would be less likely to piss off movie distributors who paid millions in ad revenue for their product.)

It’s right there in Critics for Dummies (or should that be the other way around?): be outrageous and people will turn their attention to you. They may be calling you a “dumb f**k,” but, hey, that’s the price you pay for the spotlight.

The problem is, after awhile readers grow bored by this premeditated buffoonery. A reviewer who is predictable becomes a reviewer who is ignored.

Katherine Monk, she of the Vancouver Sun, falls into that category. Ms. Monk appears to have one rule when writing about a movie: The more vaginas, the higher the rating. For every penis on the screen, take away one star. A movie like The Women? Thirty stars! Out of five!

As a reviewer, I had two rules:

1) Don’t bore me

and

b) If your movie is longer than 2 1/2 hours, you owe my bladder a family-size bag of M&Ms. The good kind. And by good kind I mean peanut.

There’s nothing funny about wetting oneself in a theatre. Unless it’s an Aussie doing it. In that case, even the no-name nincompoop at TimeOut would be roaring.

Royal scribe seeks concubines for, um, wenchly duties.

Attention, ladies: I’m using this blog posting to conduct a poll.

Please tell me which of the following titles makes you go all weak in the knees and want to swoon in my presence:

a) Sir John

b) Baron John

c) Lord John

d) Your Grace

d) The Most Majestic Ruler of Many Fiefdoms

Personally, I’m going for e) King John. Because, let’s face it, we all know it’s good to be king. Plus there’s that whole concubine thing that’s always fascinated me.

What’s put the shine on my armor these days, you might well be asking.

It’s simple really, at least to me. I’m not so sure about you lowly peasants and dung-speckled country folk.

You see, I’ve recently enjoyed a close encounter of the royalty kind. Not that I like to drop names or anything, but let’s just say the fellow’s initials were Prince Edward and the brush with the blue of blood came during his visit to B.C. earlier this month.

Actually, I didn’t personally have the close encounter — it was one of my stories that was so honored.

In 2004, I met a First Nations carver named George Van Meer and proceeded to write about this very talented man for a magazine called Sounder Profiles.

Skip ahead five years and George was chosen to present one of his carvings to the prince. The carving was accompanied by a framed copy of my story.

And, yes, if you want to go all picky on me, that pesky frame will most likely prevent the royal fingers from actually caressing my words. But we don’t let trivial matters such as details poop the party here on Planet Man. Which would explain why I’m now pretty much famous and expect to be treated as befits my new station in life.

And before you turn your heads — thou foul knaves! Thou cottars and husbandmen! — and snicker into your poncy sleeves, ask yourself who among you coarse commonors has their words stored in the Royal Gift Closet, between the mummified kangaroo and the witch doctor’s amulet from Botswana.

No? Just as I surmised. Hah and double-hah!

I’m reasonably positive an accolade of this magnitude gives me permission to drive through town, honking the horn while waving at all the loyal subjects of the Commonwealth. Some of them actually wave back. Although, considering most of them are using but one finger, I’m not sure they understand the true grandness of my accomplishment.

The problem obviously stems from the fact New Zealand — thanks to a decree by the newly elected government — has reinstated the granting of knighthoods. In their haste to make up for the old government’s obvious narrow-mindedness, Kiwis are now creating Sirs and Dames out of practically everyone who makes the effort to put their hand up.

C’mon, I mean, really, being honored for playing cricket? Hell, everyone who manages to merely stay awake during a game should automatically be made a corgi.

If New Zealand is passing out the royal treatment like so many lollies on Halloween, then it only seems fair for me to step up, point out my byline to Eddie (as we who dwell in ivory towers like to call him) and then take my rightful place at the big persons’ table for afternoon tea. Pass the cucumber sammies, would you, old dear.

Having said that, I will admit adapting to my new status has produced its own set of challenges at home.

For instance, my demand of Viking Woman to drop to her knees whenever I enter the room brought, not instant obedience but, rather, the promise to punch me in the crown jewels when I’m least expecting it.

Which is why, upon reflection, I’ve decided to leave the whole being famous thing to the Windsor Family after all. Before it becomes, you know, too much of a royal pain.

My arm is sore from patting myself on the back.

Dear Faithful Readers (hi Mom!):

My travel story about my recent sojourn to Tahiti has now been printed in the Calgary Herald.

Here is the link:

http://www.calgaryherald.com/Wild+times+TAHITI/1413071/story.html

This is me being my own PR machine. This is me hoping someone will read the story, slap their forehead and say, “This guy is a brilliant writer! Hire him immediately!” Or, even better: “Give this guy a winning lottery ticket!”

Maybe I’m simply wasting a blog posting on a chilly autumn morning in New Zealand. But, hey, if I don’t toot my own horn, no one else is going to. And, yes, that does sound rude. And, no, I don’t care.

He who was once immortal, is no more.

I was.

I was once . . .

Younger.

Thinner.

Optimistic.

Fearless.

Employed.

High school athletics had been ignored for years before I was hired as the sports editor of the Langley Times in 1989. When the sports section is a one-man show, that one man gets to decide what fills the limited space alloted for each edition.

I made my own choices. I had no ties to community soccer or Junior A hockey or the old boys rugby union. But I did attend Langley Secondary. My parents live near Brookswood Secondary. I could relate to high school athletes if only because I was never one myself. Unless, of course, you count my football career with the Saints, which lasted for one play and approximately 30 seconds. While I never did score the winning touchdown, I did score one of the team’s large lockers in the study hall, designated to store all that bulky equipment that would never be used.

At the paper, I quickly became a champion of high school sports, to the point where the occasional action shot actually made it onto Page 1. Front page, baby! Full process color! Top of the world, ma!

There were times, I admit, when I sat in the stands in another gymnasium, watching another game, working another hour I would never be paid for, missing another meal at home, when I wondered if I’d still be hanging around high schools when I was 65. Would I segue from covering the children of my fellow LSS graduates to covering their grandchildren?

Now, thanks to the global recession, I no longer need worry about that. That’s because I can no longer find work as a journalist.

Granted, some of that is my own doing. I chose to leave The Times at the beginning of the century to embark on something we once called the Damn the Pension World Tour.

In the early, heady, fun days, Viking Woman and I used that expression in jest . We’re no longer laughing.

Newspapers are dying. Falling to their knees and keeling over in front of me. Those left on the field of combat are staggering and wounded, bleeding jobs from every orifice. Because no one is advertising. Because no one wants to pay for news they can read for free on the Internet. Because no one under 25 can read words that are spelled out using all their letters.

I live in a one-newspaper town where the newspaper isn’t hiring. Twenty years of interviews and stories and page layouts and headlines and movie reviews and late nights and coffee stains on my ties and fingerprints worn off on keyboards and tears shed on deadlines, and now I’m . . . what? A dinosaur. A fossil. A dusty artifact of the 20th century.

Reduced to looking for Help Wanted signs at Starbucks and United Video and the supermarket.

The time I once spent polishing meaningful prose—prose I was paid handsomely to produce— is now taken up by this blog. Effort that earns me zero cash and, if I’m lucky, maybe a couple dozen unique visits. On a good day.

There was a point—quite recently, actually—where I could at least take some small comfort in the fact I’d enjoyed a good run. Twenty years: Millions of words. Thousands of bylines. Hundreds of photos. Some people never get that. Some people work their entire lives and go into the ground having left no mark at all in the world to mark their existence.

But my name will live forever , bound into the books in which back issues of the Langley Times are archived. Books with red covers. With hard covers. Books to be kept forever.

And then comes word that, during a recent shift, someone hired for the day to clean out junk inadvertently placed several of those red books in a Dumpster.

Now my words, my thoughts, my opinions reside in a landfill, buried deep in a rubbish tip. The pages pulped and mashed. The ink streaked. The photos blurred. My bylines smeared.

I was once  . . .

Immortal.

I am no more.

The award for most ignored CV goes to . . .

I’m reading Michele A’Court’s column in the March 7 Your Weekend magazine (included in the Dominion Post) when I notice the credit line at the bottom: “Michele A’Court is an award-winning comedian and writer.”

Well, of course she bloody is. I mean, who in the journalism business isn’t an award winner?

Because I’m chronically unemployed between journalism jobs, I’ve been using the Internet to peruse a lot of newspaper lately. And, oh look, every one of them has won an award.

Exactly what kind of award would that be, you might well ask. Ah, now there’s the rub.

Judging by some of the content on those websites, the prize could very well be for Most Typos in One Story, or Worst Headline Ever in the History of the English Language, or even Poorest Use of Judgement When it Comes to Choosing Photos.

I mean, come on, how many frickin’ awards can there be out there? If your farm reporter won the largest turnip at the country fair, does that count? If your editorial staff won the three-legged race at Staff Fun Day, does that count?

When I worked for the — wait for it — award-winning Langley Times, I frequently submitted my sports stories to various industry competitions. But it was a lot of work digging back through the files to fish out tear sheets and then filling out the accompanying forms. That was time better spent on minor details, such as, oh I don’t know, getting the darn paper to the printer before deadline.

After awhile, when my deathless prose consistently failed to impress any of the judges, I simply stopped wasting perfectly good time and let others more keen for glory vie for the accolades.

Actually, the majority of the editorial awards the Times won during my 11-year career at the paper were thanks to the photography skills of John Gordon (johngordonsphotography.com). John is brilliant, and I’m not just saying that because I wrote the foreword to his book, Langley: Familiar Places, Familiar Scenes, and earned a wad of cash for my efforts (but, alas, no awards).

With that talent came a degree of frustration, a trait not uncommon with those who “paint with light.” Many was the game where I paced the sidelines as time wound down, wondering if I was going to have art to go with my story. Just as I was about to grab my own camera, John would wander along, snap off a few frames, and be off to his next assignment. In the morning, I’d find another perfect shot on my desk and wonder why I ever doubted the man.

It became somewhat of a given that, come awards season, the Times would nail something and if that honor went once more to our photographer, then so be it. At least it meant we all worked for an award-winning newspaper.

Actually, during my stint in Langley, I did have one fleeting brush with fame. It also involved a photographer, although this time it was Rob Newell (robnewellphotography.ca), one of the weekend shooters. While John Gordon won the majority of his accolades based on work he did for Page 1 and the hard news section, Rob actually scored an award for a sports photo.

As the sports editor, I made the decision on whether or not a photo was included in my section. I ran Rob’s shot and he subsequently won the award.

I don’t know what those rocket scientists who feted Michele A’Court’s attempts at writing a humor column might think but, personally, I’m taking at least partial responsibility for Rob’s official recognition.

Which would explain why my CV describes me as “an award-assisting journalist.”

I mean, that’s got to attract someone’s attention when it comes to filling a position in a newsroom, right?

And it will. I’m sure of it.

Any day now.

There is s**t in the newspaper. Literally.

Warning: This posting contains course language that may offend some readers. Parental discretion is advised.

It’s become painfully obvious that newspapers are quickly becoming extinct. They are sinking into a quagmire of debt and advertiser/reader apathy while destroying the careers of talented journalists in the process.I know — I’m one of those journalists.

Welcome to Job Oblivion, my fellow scribblers. We’re forming a line over there, right beside the Betamax repairmen.

But when there are no more newspapers, what happens to the little old lady?

Before you start thinking I’ve been sniffing my sweaty watchband again, let me explain.

I’ve worked at several newspapers in several countries, starting with the Langley Times. And, especially with the smaller, community-focused papers, there was always this great unspoken fear in the newsroom that something we produced would offend someone, somewhere.

A good production day would see the paper put to bed before the print deadline, filled with snappy headlines, eye-catching photographs and a minimum of typos. Oh, and nothing controversial that could provoke some shriveled bitty to put aside her darning, turn down the volume on Days of Our Lives, and ring the publisher to complain about the offending content.

This led to a morale-sucking creative paralysis among my fellow reporters. It didn’t matter how ground-breaking our stories, or how the committee should just hand over the Pulitzer now and be done with it, the perfect edition was one that managed to not upset someone’s grandmother.

It made for boring copy. It made for lacklustre, colourless copy. Just as long as it was harmless copy. That made the publisher happy which, in turn made the editor happy. And we all got to keep our jobs, at least until the next edition.

Being the sports editor, I seldom had to worry about complaints, unless it was the moms of figure skaters, who spent 11 years nagging me for more coverage. Otherwise, as long as I remembered to write that the home team “lost” and wasn’t “thumped,” “massacred” or “destroyed,” I was safe.

The one exception came after I quoted a high school athlete as saying something like, “Jesus Christ, that win was the best feeling in the world!” Sure, I could have omitted the Lord’s name and the quote would still have worked, but the kid said it with such conviction that it just felt right to include all his words.

Sure enough, the next day I was summoned to the front desk where a woman stood, ramrod straight. She had a look on her face that told me she had just sucked a lemon. And had another one tucked up her arse.

She wanted to know why I’d used the Lord’s name in the context of a sporting quote. Before I could explain, the fire alarm went off and we had to evacuate the building. I assumed, after giving me a blast, the woman would leave. Instead, she continued to berate me on the sidewalk. Fortunately, I’d positioned myself under the alarm’s external speaker and when my visitor finally realized I could not possibly hear her over the siren’s wail, she turned on her heel and marched away.

She wasn’t exactly as I’d pictured the little old lady, but that was the exact response all my cringing editors feared.

Apparently, the little old lady does not live in New Zealand. This is evident by the foul language that sees the light of day in the pages of our two national newspapers, the New Zealand Herald and the Dominion Post. It is common, especially when a reporter is providing a direct quote, to see “pissed,” “bugger,” “shit” and “bullshit” staring out at me from the printed page.

I’m no prude. I can drop the f-bomb with the best of them. I’ve watched HBO. I’ve endured Quentin Tarantino movies. But to see such language displayed in what is still quaintly known as a “family” newspaper still makes me cringe a bit.

As a further underlining of this strange Down Under interpretation of freedom of the press, I read a feature in the the Herald’s weekend magazine which included a quote from Wikipedia in which someone is described as “nothing but a fat cunt.”

Descriptive? Oh, yeah. Pushing the boundaries of good taste? Ya think!?!

On another occasion, a movie reviewer openly referred to a film she disliked as being “shit.” I was a syndicated movie reviewer for 15 years. If I had a dollar for every time I was tempted to write the same thing, I would not be sitting in this tiny, under-insulated house. I would be writing this blog at Muri Beach in Rarotonga while shielding my keyboard from the juice of the grapes my Nubian wench-babes had just peeled for me.

Fifteen years of the good, the bad and the Good Burger. Fifteen years of door prizes and smarmy radio hosts and popcorn mixed with Nibs and stories like this one:

I once took a comely co-worker to dinner and a movie in Vancouver. The small talk over the meal went well and we seemed to be getting along just fine.

Halfway through the movie, the young lady excused herself and left the theatre. To buy more treats? To use the toilet? No — she went home.

I asked for an explanation the next time we met and she told me she hadn’t like the movie and so walked out. On the movie. On me. On the date. On our budding relationship.

The movie was The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

It was shit.

You can bitemymoko but please don’t steal it.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, what can you say about plagiarism? That it’s the sincerest form of laziness? Of larceny?

I can only remember someone “borrowing” my words once before, and that was in high school, when the fellow who copied my assignment proceeded to lend it to a third party, without my knowledge. When Mr. Third Party and I were the only ones busted, I could honestly plead ignorance. It turned out to be a good defence. Sometimes, it still is. Ranks just behind “Because I’m a man with needs” on Planet Man’s Ulitmate List of Good Excuses.

Because I’m an unemployed freelance writer, I often find myself idly trolling the Internet, hoping inspiration for my next novel will somehow pop off the screen and grab me by the throat. I was tag surfing on wordpress.com when I stumbled across a link to a website called Seo by the Sea (seobythesea.com), run by a fellow named Bill Slawski.

One of Bill’s pages is called Test Your Blog, and it’s here where you’ll find such entertainment as the ability to render your blogsite in greyscale (um, oooookay . . .), or translate it into Bulgarian or any number of fun languages. Or see whether China has banned your site for, you know, making fun eyes with Miley Cyrus.

The test that caught my eye was lucky number 13 — “Catch people who might be plagiarizing your words on the Web.”

Yeah, right. I’m a middle-aged Canadian living in New Zealand who writes about wine and yet doesn’t drink it. Who claims to live on Planet Man and yet worships a wife named “Viking Woman.” A self-proclaimed novelist who wrote one book in 2004 and has tried in vain to flog it ever since.

Like anyone would want to plagiarize my words. RAUCOUS LAUGH!

And yet  . . .

I clicked on the link.

And said hello to Carlos Chernij (its-never-too-early.blogspot.com).

Carlos likes, among other things, football and baseball and, judging by the teams he cheers for, lives in New England. He has several favorite movies, mostly comedies — “anything but not too sappy,” he notes with daring disregard for commas.

He also appreciates good writing.

OK, I’m just guessing about that last part, but it’s a guess based on the fact that, among Mr. Chernij’s blog postings is one called “The 2008 G-String has a particularly unique bouquet.”

It was, as noted at its conclusion, “Posted by Carlos Chernij” on Jan. 21, 2009, which is the exact date the post was written.

By me.

No attribution. No link to my blogsite. Just good, ole Carlos taking all the credit.

Now, as much as I’d love to be the next Dave Barry, my postings — while time-consuming and occasionally chuckle-inducing — are hardly gold. Which leaves me struggling to understand why Carlos would bother “borrowing” the post in the first place.

If you’re going to steal my words, for chrissakes, take Brown Girls. It’s a finished novel and one that has already earned kudos from readers. In fact, if someone did nick my book and publish it under their own name, I’d almost be chuffed. It would mean my work had someone slipped past the gatekeepers at Ivory Tower Publishing House and I could at least take some small consolation in that. For as long as it took to load my shotgun, that is.

The same day I discover my posting has been filched, I also comes across this note from frootbat31.wordpress.com:

Here are a few tips you should consider concerning blogs . . .: Do not post another writer’s work in your blog. Link instead. Some blog authors require a certain number of hits to their page in order to glean some income from their work. Cutting and pasting those words steals hits from them! There is also to consider the copyrights all writers have to their work, which includes email and web site. If its (sic) printed somewhere, its (sic) copyrighted. I also link with direct credit, to let readers know who is responsible for the article.

Sounds perfectly logical to me. But maybe there are too many multi-syllable words in that paragraph for Carlos to understand. After all, someone who doesn’t list the Bruins among his favourite New England teams can’t be all that bright.

Oh, and Carlos? You have my permission to steal this post. Yer welcome.

I’ll go tally the tears

The meek will inherit the earth, after which the cynical will stand back and mock them.

I came to that conclusion, amazingly enough, by being a fan of Survivor.

Observations of the human race based on a reality TV show might seem random at best — and just plain silly at worst — but lately it is from my perch on the couch that I’ve had my only view of my fellow Earthlings. Such is the lot of freelance writers and unpublished novelists who can seldom afford to venture much past the front gate.

With Survivor’s 17th season (Gabon) having concluded last night here in New Zealand (more than six weeks after its finale in North America, and barely two weeks before the 18th season is slated to begin in the more civilized parts of the world), I was finally able to return to Entertainment Weekly’s website without worrying about accidentally stumbling across spoilers that would ruin what little surprise still exists in my life.

And that’s when I started to worry about the future of the human race.

You see, Dalton Ross, EW’s self-proclaimed Survivor “expert,” baldly states that he dislikes both the Fallen Comrades and Family Visit sections of the show.

Maybe he finds them schmaltzy or overtly sentimental but his reaction is typical of Generation Whatever, that of poo-pooing anything the majority happens to be enjoying at the moment. The idea, of course, is to stand out by being in the minority.

If everyone else is cheering, Dalton is going to boo. If everyone else is wiping away a tear of happiness, Dalton is going to jeer. The subject matter doesn’t matter: He does it simply to be different, to be noticed for his negative noise.

Ross is also typical of the new breed of critics and writers whose schtick is to heap disdain on popular entertainment. These are the same people who are subsequently amazed at the proliferation of “sleeper” hits: movies that make millions despite bad reviews; TV shows that top the ratings even though they supposedly left reviewers dry-heaving.

I call their style contrary reporting and, frankly, it’s gotten old. It’s also gotten predictable.

Katherine Monk, a movie reviewer for the Vancouver Sun, hates action movies. That much has become obvious over several years and hundreds of trashed films. As a reader, I already know her opinion when I see her byline above any slice of celluloid bearing even a whiff of testosterone. And so I don’t even bother finishing the review. Why waste my time when I already know she is just going to bash it with her purse and her heels for being insensitive and lacking any social value.

But Monk is simply representing the sisters. Dalton Ross’s attitude is another kettle of sneers altogether.

If we lose our ability to sympathize/empathize, if everything in life is meant to be pointed at and laughed about and waved off as stupid or inane, what does that say about us as people?

If we’re not allowed to shed a tear or three when some dirt-caked, food-deprived reality show contestant gets to hug their spouse after three weeks of hardship in a remote jungle, then we have lost an essential part of what separates us from the beasts. And I’m not just talking about the ability to type.

Dalton Ross and his ilk may think they are somehow above the stinking masses who revel in this kind of TV. They may think they are too professional to be sucked in by manipulative editing and slick production values. That they are too intelligent to be entertained by anything geared towards the lowest common denominator.

Their opinions bear no resemblance to anything honest or heartfelt. Rather, they come across as pretentious and self-inflated and shallow. The phony mocking the phony.

They may think themselves somehow aloof and sophisticated and superior, but need I remind them that “cool” rhymes with “fool.”

Now excuse me while I go watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. That Ty Pennington makes me bawl like a baby every time.

A virgin writes about sex. Or something similar.

Old journalists don’t die. They just get downsized. And kicked to the curb. And left to rot in the sun, their bodies bloated with words never to be published.

That’s how I’m feeling today. Twenty years in newsrooms across four countries, a million bylines,  and I’m reduced to this — cold-calling via the Internet, begging for freelance assignments.

The good news is Viking Woman is still working. The bad news is I haven’t quite convinced her to let me marry three or four other employed people of the female persuasion, no matter how many times I point out to her the benefits of shared mortgage payments.

I could return to writing novels, I suppose, but I’d have a better chance of striking it rich by buying a lottery ticket. If we could afford to buy a lottery ticket, that is.

Which just leaves blogging for a living.

It can be done, folks. I know because I read Heather B. Armstrong (dooce.com) and she is quite blatant about the fact the ads on her blog site generate enough cash to enable both her and hubby to abandon their full-time jobs.

Ms. Armstrong has somehow convinced eight million people to click on her site’s Google ads roughly every five seconds. And, oh yeah, you can read her blog if your clicking finger starts to cramp up. She writes about her daughter and her dogs. Yeah, I know, bores the ever-living crap out of me too.

I’d tackle the same topics but my babies are now, respectively, 31 and 26 and, even if they were still doing cutesy things, the fact that they live in Canada and I live in New Zealand means I’m not privy to them.

As for pets as blog ammo, we did have a stray cat move in for awhile. But after deciding the kitchen sink was its own personal kitty litter box, Sparky wisely moved on. Just before I snapped its neck.

Now I see Heather is pregnant again. When I was a government employee, that’s what we called a Make-Work Project. One afternoon quickie later, and now she’s about to pop out a lifetime worth of blog material. Frickin’ brilliant! Some people know all the marketing angles.

When I suggested the same tactic to Viking Woman, she was kind enough to remind me she keeps my testicles under the sink in the kitchen, stored in an old mayonnaise jar that still smells faintly of potato salad. So more children is probably out of the question. On a related note, I now have this strange urge to boil eggs and dig out the paprika.

Plan B is to transform bitemymoko into a blog dedicated to travel. I’m in New Zealand and the rest of the world (minus four million or so  Kiwis) isn’t. That’s a lot of potential readers (and, by association, ad clickers). The recent visit by my sister triggered the thought of starting the blog with stories about the bazillion vineyards located up and down the East Coast.

I know what you’re thinking: “But, John, you don’t drink. So isn’t you writing about wine similar to a virgin writing about sex?”

To which my speedy and extremely witty reply is: “Uh, yeah, you’re right.”

Which is where Viking Woman comes in. When not dusting off her collection of gonads (I am, after all, her fourth husband), she’s been known to appreciate the odd glass of sparkling whatever.

My brilliant plan would involve her doing the actual tasting while I make notes and take photos.

It’s not like we haven’t done this before.

Take, for instance, this conversation from our past:

VK: You want me to do what?

Me: Ride all the rollercoasters in Las Vegas and rate them on a scream factor between one and five.

VK: And what will you be doing while I’m soiling my pants?

Me: Making notes and taking photos. On the ground. Where it’s safe.

VK: I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to divorce you.

Me: Fair enough, but could you do it after I finish the story?

Oh, and just for the record, The Roller Coaster at New York New York earned the top rating. Viking Woman rode it with my brother and they both thought they were going to die.

I’m going to guess wine tasting will be a wee bit less hazardous. If not to Viking Woman’s health, then certainly to mine.