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It was the most cliche pretense for (what feels like) the biggest day of your life. 

Sunday afternoon, and no news. I refreshed and refreshed the AP wire, waiting for anything to replace the 7 a.m. newscast. When I came in to run boards for a volleyball scrimmage on Saturday night, my less-than-interested coworker told me about, “some guy kidnapping his wife from her salon a few blocks away.” He’s a DJ guy, I’m a news girl. The big story wasn’t his niche. 

Now that the latest was, “search is ongoing,” I was bitter that I’d missed the story. I scanned through my Facebook one more time before recording the evening news, likely with old stories, and saw a post from Western Nebraska, asking what was with all the state trooper sirens. In the comments, someone linked to a small town newspaper: the alleged kidnapper had reached the western Nebraska, where the victim had family. A SWAT team had gathered at a farm building. The search was on.

And so was the reporting. I had to refresh the wire twice before realizing the AP jut hadn’t gotten this yet. I posted to my own Facebook: any western Nebraska people, keep me posted in case I miss something. I knew not to update large, national stories overnight because of what could develop. But this was local. I decided I’d come in after hours if I had to update. But just to be safe, I called the news director, first. 

In the midst of the exciting reporting/a big story/getting on good terms with a director who is vital to me despite having never met in person, my stomach flopped. I’d went from bitter to excited with this update. I’d forgotten that meanwhile, someone was in the most terrifying situation of her life.

Maybe it was the column I’d spent some of the free time reading, about the media’s seizure of a “good story” and what responsibility we have with that. The increasing negativity, from people who don’t mean harm, about “The Media.” We have “A Bias,” and we “Try to Create Hype,” or “Ignore the Real Story.” Those are things I try not to take to heart, and also try to defy. Tell the truth, tell the stories, get all sides.

Alas, it hit me that my “big break” to really go “above and beyond” as a weekend board op, had to have come in the form of danger, negativity or tragedy. Maybe that’s why a professor once explained a movie to us where the devil is always reincarnated as a reporter or a lawyer: we really benefit over negative events. Covering the big fires, a kidnapping, a tragedy - it’s good for the ego and better for the resume. At the same time, someone somewhere is suffering. 

The only argument I have for that guilt feeling, is that telling the public is absolutely vital. The eastern Nebraska world was holding their breaths, hoping western Nebraska world would save the day, and during the first budget meeting of the year, just before 9 p.m., I found out they had.

Even now, I feel the “informing the public” excuse can be a cop-out, and I don’t know if that justifies all the gains we get from bad situations, or not. But if I’m at least doing that much, this work can’t be in vain… can it?

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unforgettabledetritus:

bthny:

I’ve never really thought of as hands being sexy before but damn are Jon Hamm’s hands sexy

ARE YOU KIDDING ME hands are the sexiest

Oh hai, people who love Jon Hamm means you probably also love Mad Men, which I never see among the Breaking Bad/Supernatural/Game of Thrones fandoms on here. YOU GUYS BECOME MY NEW FRIENDS, PLEASE

Source: iwannagotilltheworldends
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My parents visited this weekend, and I love my mother, but every conversation…

My parents visited this weekend, and I love my mother, but every conversation…

(via profesor-reject)

Source: thheeppaarrtty
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A guy’s life depends on me and communication is vital, as I put him live on air from a studio miles away from the car dealership he broadcasts from. 
How’s your Saturday afternoon?

A guy’s life depends on me and communication is vital, as I put him live on air from a studio miles away from the car dealership he broadcasts from.

How’s your Saturday afternoon?

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Eating Oreos, listening to CNN in the background at my radio job and scanning Tumblr.

Pretty OK shape for saying goodbye to teacher boyfriend after he went back to our hometown after three-month bliss. Not saying there weren’t tears - seven times - but by the time the whole “goodbye” thing came, it was like, “eh, I’ll see you in a few weeks, right?”

I should write long-form about it all, about the changes and craziness and how much can happen so soon. And to be honest, I feel I’ve changed a lot since when I had that conversation around a fire with my parents in May.

But what else is going to happen in one summer, one city and with two people? Petty doubts. Silly arguments. Being broke as hell. Finding every adventure possible. Playing tourist. Playing domestic. It all kind of adds up and creates something bigger out of something already great.

What would I expect?


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It’s 9:17 a.m., James is snoring and I’m, for God knows why, wide awake. Whatever. Jerk has to teach in 18 days, soooo.

I took one more trip home before school meets radio station weekends (AKA very limited travel). All I wanted was to jump in my hometown pool, but it was July-cold all week. Then all I wanted was to frolf on our last full day, and the morning cool burned off into complete sticky mug, as if we’d had strawberry soda thrown on us and never rinsed it off.

Nonetheless, I saw some of my hometown girls, and their guys. We watched old, drunk folks sing karaoke. James’ mom treated us to dinner, as well as hours of conversation - one hour with just us two while he sat in on a meeting. My parents entertained me on one hilarious grocery trip. It was the best cure for a case of nostalgia. I really do love them all.

I don’t know how I feel about just getting through a bunch of required electives, or what to expect from them. Having to do the school paper for clips, and the fact that it’s a love I really couldn’t just up and leave, despite what I say. I wonder if I could do another piece like Death story, or if I’ll have time. God knows what I’ll even do after May, or where Danae will go, since we won’t have another school year to bring us back together.

Putting things in God’s hands is much easier said than done.

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darkestgreen:

thebestworstidea:

resilientkate:

softgore:


“This piece was primarily a trust exercise, in which she told viewers she would not move for six hours no matter what they did to her.  She placed 72 objects one could use in pleasing or destructive ways, ranging from flowers and a feather boa to a knife and a loaded pistol, on a table near her and invited the viewers to use them on her however they wanted.  
Initially, Abramović said, viewers were peaceful and timid, but it escalated to violence quickly.  “The experience I learned was that … if you leave decision to the public, you can be killed… I felt really violated: they cut my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the public. Everyone ran away, escaping an actual confrontation.”
This piece revealed something terrible about humanity, similar to what Philip Zimbardo’s Stanford Prison Experiment or Stanley Milgram’s Obedience Experiment, both of which also proved how readily people will harm one another under unusual circumstances.” 
This performance showed just how easy it is to dehumanize a person who doesn’t fight back, and is particularly powerful because it defies what we think we know about ourselves. I’m certain the no one reading this believes the people around him/her capable of doing such things to another human being, but this performance proves otherwise.”

this is why performance art is important


So every single person who told me ‘ignore them they’ll go away’ and ‘you can’t let them know they bothered you’ and ‘They’ll stop if they don’t see you react’ and all that bull shit, my entire school career, I want you to look good and hard at this.
I want you to think about what you said.
What you keep saying.
What you are telling your children.
You are making them powerless.

that last comment. actually crying.

darkestgreen:

thebestworstidea:

resilientkate:

softgore:

“This piece was primarily a trust exercise, in which she told viewers she would not move for six hours no matter what they did to her.  She placed 72 objects one could use in pleasing or destructive ways, ranging from flowers and a feather boa to a knife and a loaded pistol, on a table near her and invited the viewers to use them on her however they wanted. 

Initially, Abramović said, viewers were peaceful and timid, but it escalated to violence quickly.  “The experience I learned was that … if you leave decision to the public, you can be killed… I felt really violated: they cut my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the public. Everyone ran away, escaping an actual confrontation.”

This piece revealed something terrible about humanity, similar to what Philip Zimbardo’s Stanford Prison Experiment or Stanley Milgram’s Obedience Experiment, both of which also proved how readily people will harm one another under unusual circumstances.”

This performance showed just how easy it is to dehumanize a person who doesn’t fight back, and is particularly powerful because it defies what we think we know about ourselves. I’m certain the no one reading this believes the people around him/her capable of doing such things to another human being, but this performance proves otherwise.”

this is why performance art is important

So every single person who told me ‘ignore them they’ll go away’ and ‘you can’t let them know they bothered you’ and ‘They’ll stop if they don’t see you react’ and all that bull shit, my entire school career, I want you to look good and hard at this.

I want you to think about what you said.

What you keep saying.

What you are telling your children.

You are making them powerless.

that last comment. actually crying.

(via coveredincatfurr)

Source: andrewfishman
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mymindpalaceisatardis:

liebelied:

wendymabelaraneaprenderghast:

fuckin cuties

OHGOD

I DIDN’T GET IT AND THEN I DID

I don’t reblog here often, but when I do…

(via lovealwaysmandakay)

Source: drunkonstephen
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My mother was the biggest princess Di fan, and one of my biggest childhood memories is that death/funeral.

I’ve had mixed feelings about the royal babe, just like I did the wedding and family in general. I mean on one hand, we had a revolution for the sake of not worrying about royalty. On the other, England has since been our allies across the pond, and what a beautiful family to watch emerge.

Not to mention, Prince William has been my main hottie since I was 10. And Kate ain’t bad herself. So part of me is still saying eeeeee, IT’S A BABY.

And on the subject of babies, shout-out to my girl Charmel and her hubby who pushed out a baby girl yesterday! Clearly baby Adelaide and the prince are meant to get married.

Source: imgfave
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Daily Mass and a lunch date with my love makes for one very appropriate Raising Canes cup.

Do I really have less than a month left of this bliss?

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Last week James took me to the kiddie zoo. Even though we’re an hour away from the nation’s greatest zoo, we’ve both, though separately, been there 2,000 times (just last summer for me). And as awesome as it is there, um, no red pandas. I’ve wanted to see the kiddie zoo’s red pandas ever since my girl Jaci told me about them, and then twins were just born there last year.

The twins have since found respective new homes, but the one who  was there was still so fun. In the 90 degree heat, we prepared ourselves for the heartbreak of him staying inside his little home where it’s cool. But he was actually more playful at 3 p.m. than 1 (yes I went to his exhibit twice). I’d guess because the crowds of kids and day-camps were gone  by then. 

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He ran around his little home for us, and got this close to the window twice. I about died. 

Then on Saturday we went to our first roller derby bout to see our friend Sarah’s team. I’ve seen “Whip It,” and heard Sarah talk about this for a year and a half. But whoa. That sport. It’s just as full-body contact as football, except on skates. The girls clearly train hard, even the little junior teams. I’ve never seen anything more empowering to women and girls. I’m even more excited now that my little hometown is creating their own team!

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In recent days I’ve pushed the crappy, creeping feelings aside, because you know, great weather, great boyfriend and great jobs. Think positive!

So on July 8, my grandmother’s birthday, I didn’t post a Facebook status or blog for the occasion. It just felt irrelevant to say, “This dead person’s birthday is today, RIP and love and stuff!” Especially when my grandmother hated Facebook, much less internet, only using email when absolutely necessary for work.

But the day still brought a bit of nostalgia, not just for some irrelevant date. Since I grew up maybe 10 blocks from them, birthdays with my grandparents were common. When I was younger, we’d have just returned from the July 4th camping trip an hour west with my uncle Kelly’s family. Early on, eating steaks off the grill and later talking on the back patio into the dark became a mark that the second half of summer had commenced.

A few years after Uncle Kelly died, the camping trip fell through, was instead dubbed a family reunion and moved to my hometown lake. Dad’s other brother and sister, along with Kelly’s family, came. We still spent the days on and in the water, scarfing down burgers. But that last night was when Grandma and Grandpa came out, and it was steaks and cake.

A few times, storms sent us in town to their house for the celebration. Regardless, July 8 still carries its own stigma. And I couldn’t even begin to explain her giddiness when she was half lit but not belligerent, or her soft but raspy voice. I haven’t found her manner in a single other old lady since she passed, because she was too headstrong and independent to be any other old lady.

What I will say is that on July 8, 2013, I felt a weird and creeping sadness that was pushed down because it was too beautiful of a day to be sad. I didn’t mention it while doing dinner with my cousin Erin and her wife Naomi (a couple Grandma very much supported through her Catholic faith), because why dampen spirits?

I’m probably so damn nostalgic because it’s my first summer with no reason to be home, or some sort of quarter-life crisis, I don’t freaking know.

What I do know is, those who promise to smile because there’s 1000 reasons to and only one reason to frown, or those who feed you shit lines like, “smile because it happened, don’t cry that it’s over,” probably have great intentions and are good people, so don’t go hit them it anything.

But after pretending not to be homesick or miss this awesome lady who went just two months minus one day after her last birthday with us, I realize I have the right, and that it would be healthier, to be both sad that it’s over and happy it happened, and to accept that is the epitome of bittersweet. The sting though, won’t go away. It demands to be felt.

*The title of this post, and its last five words, we’re penned by an author named John Green. His writing in part inspired the realization behind this post. If you enjoy authors who don’t feed into shit cliches, and you enjoy sobbing while reading at public pools, I very much recommend his works.

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I’m so homesick for lakes and outdoor pools. 

Despite growing up completely land locked, I was within 10 miles from the nearest state lake. The literal second thing I bought after my driver’s licence was a park permit.

Twenty-two miles west of my hometown is another, bigger and cleaner lake, and 30 miles from there is the state’s biggest, home of our family’s annual big camping trip. 

All three have accommodated Dad’s motor boat, providing hours of  tubing, cruising and fishing — we aren’t known for the balance of skiers. They also offer space for my parents’ latest camper — which started as a true rough-it shanty, later a step up from that and finally as of five years ago, a nice 5th wheel that isn’t too comfortable to “camp,” but still serves a nice, homey purpose. Add coolers, campfires and lawn chairs, and you have defined my childhood summer weekends. 

Needless to say, both the brother and I grew up on swim lessons, in and outdoors. Even when we weren’t under instruction, many summer hours not spent at the lake were at the pool. The local grumble is and always has been that the recreation complex and outdoor pool, though both owned by the city, have two complete different pass prices, so you either pay for two separate passes or choose between outdoor lap lanes on a hot day, or the weight room combined with an indoor pool. 

So I was really excited when I got my summer Y pass, which included access to three locations - two indoor and one outdoor pool. Alas, the “outdoor pool” is merely the kiddie area, and lap lanes are inside. On top of that, the nearest state lake from here is a good 35 minute drive.

I decided to suck it up today, and arrived at the outdoor pool, two books and a beach towel in tow. My car has long since lost its air conditioner, and even if I couldn’t breasts-stroke or freestyle across the sun-gleamed water, I could dangle my feet in, children’s laughter around me, soaking up the sun. It would have to due. 


Needless to say, I ended up choosing day drinking/blogging/grumbling. 

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My first day off training at the station was a bit rough.

Aside from my self doubt/nerves and asking a million questions to a coworker I’d just met, there was the California plane crash. We usually stick to local/state news, but since this was big, we reported the initial story: “unknown injuries at time of crash.”

At 5 p.m. the AP had an update to 10 critically injured. The problem is, I was reporting an overnight newscast. God knows how outdated it would sound by 8 a.m. on Sunday. I contemplated and fretted for an hour. Report the 10 known injuries? Keep the newscast I had? Include an “at press time” disclaimer with the new?

I finally decided to toss any self shame away. Phone numbers of the full-time reporting staff are posted, so after emailing my manager, I called our news director - a guy who, up to this point, I’d never met.

1.) It turns out Fox News runs national newscasts through the night, so there was no need to run an update. Oh.
2.) It also turns out, two minutes after emailing my manager, I found HIS number posted just under the reporting staff’s. Oh.

The rest of my shift was a huge lesson in nerves. Not being such a perfectionist in recording. Paying attention to details. An hour after I was supposed to leave, I was so drained as I shit the door behind me. An hour after that came the email from my manager: don’t email next time, call.

At least this stuff gets smoother with time.

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cheeseprincessa:

i love few things as much as i love the fact that khloe’s mugshot is in a frame in kim’s house

cheeseprincessa:

i love few things as much as i love the fact that khloe’s mugshot is in a frame in kim’s house

(via pizza)

Source: cheeseprincessa