An Alternate Way of Expressing Nietzche's Line
'That Which Does Not Kill Me Makes Me Stronger'
'Experts are those who pass through the forest of thorns.'
A weblog devoted to spurring a conversation among those who use words to varying degrees in their daily work. Hosted by John Ettorre, a Cleveland-based writer and editor. Please email me at: firstname.lastname@example.org. "There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real." --James Salter
An Alternate Way of Expressing Nietzche's Line
The Case Wiki
Tubbs Jones Needs Some
U.S. Automakers' Problems
Pull Yourself Together
There are None So Blind...
It Always Comes
The Power of a Graceful Retreat
I Wonder If He Had Rumsfeld In Mind...
The Slow, Steady Cumulative Influence
Cleveland City Planning Director Norman Krumholz and his associates dramatized the issues for the planning profession by emphasizing that almost all large central cities were losing population, including many that were aggressively pursuing economic development. No perfectly coordinated industrial, commercial, office, tourism and housing development strategy could magically reverse declines at one stroke. Krumholz and associates employ a sophisticated political pragmatism that quickly became known as the 'no-growth planning.'
When Method Meets Craft
A Complaint About Feds' Neglect of Cities:
Your Results Will Mirror Your Commitment
Reading Material of Choice
Two Kinds of Lunatics
The Real Difference Between the Sexes
How Happy Are You?
Too Many Words
We Study to Utter Our Painful Secret
Best Lead of the Month
'When I read the flirty e-mails and instant messages from Congressman Mark Foley to assorted cuddle buns of the male denomination, I was embarrassed, truly embarrassed--not only for Mr. Foley, but for myself as an American. This is the best we can do, this is what it's come to? It was bad enough when the cheesy details of President Bill Clinton's and Monica Lewinsky's bobble-head ministrations leered from the pages of Ken Starr's report, and we learned that the former intern resuscitated the Commander in Chief up only to the point of release, whereupon he withdrew and furnished himself off in a bathroom sink, like some unhousebroken Martin Amis character. The president of the United States, masturbating into a sink--it doesn't get more plaintive than that. Or so I believed. But the Mark Foley congressional-page scandal took the sexcapades to its ultimate dry point of diminuendo: It was a sex scandal without any actual sex. It unfurled almost entirely in the phantom zone where fantasy and virtual reality overlap. What could be more tacky or poignant than a middle-aged sad sack quizzing a teenage page if he had spanked his Oscar Meyer that weekend--"it must feel great spirting on the towel" (further evidence of how cyberprose degrades spelling ability)--and mooching kisses from another playmate before a vote on a war-appropriations bill? When a grown man traffics in smily-face emoticons, it's time to fold up the cot. From Bill Clinton seeking body warmth in Lewinsky's pillowy embrace to Foley batting his eyelashes online, to poor old jowly chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee Wilbur Mills making a ripe fool of himself with stripper Fanne Fox, "the Argentine Firecracker," the high-profile Washington sex scandal is marked by desperate lunging, not lusty abandon. A hot flash of male menopause, it's more of a cry for help and a prelude to rehab than a yelp of pleasure. Washington should steal a tabloid page from its closest and horniest ally, Great Britain. When it comes to whipping up a sex scandal into a donnybrook, the Brits have us beat--they really know how to make the bedsheets billow. British sex scandals, like ours, are often rooted in a dolor of middle-aged malaise, but they're often animated by spite, spicy details, vanity, revenge, bitter comedy and bawdy excess--the complete Jacobean pantry.'
Seeking Happiness In Vain
'The seers and psychics were less effective in zeroing in on Roberto Clemente. Rumors and false sightings continued. They were no closer to finding him than was his youngest son, Little Ricky, who picked up the telephone and pretended he was talking to his father. No closer than the mourners who started rowing out from the beach to spread flower petals in the sacred water. Vic Power had been convinced that his friend was alive until he saw a photograph of some more debris collected from the wreckage. There was the briefcase Clemente had bought in Nicaragua during the baseball trip with the little aligator head he thought looked funny and wanted to cut off. Ohhh baby, Power said, he's gone. That was January 6th, Three Kings Day. Later that day, Power joined fellow ballplayers at the annual Puerto Rico Winter League All-Star game at Hiram Bithorn Stadium. The game was conducted in honor of Clemente, the greatest Latino player of them all. The long, bleak week was closing, and at the end, after his people by the thousands lined the Atlantic shore in the expectation that Clemente would walk out of the sea, and thousands more made pilgrimages up the hillside to shuffle past his house like a shrine, and the seers said that he was alive, but dazed, and President Nixon got involved at the White House, and the Pittsburgh comrades arrived in Puerto Rico to show their grief and solidarity, and the U.S. Coast Guard with all its boats and planes and divers and equipment, slowly dragged up the wreckage and debris, searching in a Probability of Detection Area stretching for miles--at the end, finally, on a coral reef a mile east of Punta Maldonado, they found one sock, and Vera knew it was Roberto's. One sock, that's all, the rest to sharks and gods.'
If Oprah and Martha Stewart
You Have to Reach People