A flood of pictures, a trickle of grief

The official memorial ceremony was held 10 days ago on the first day of Spring.  Rebirth, renewal.

Memorial for whom?  Have we forgotten already?

Sixteen people, most of them school students, gunned down in classrooms, in the halls, on the street of any town, because it could happen anywhere – Germany, Finland, Norway, Canada… Don’t kid yourself – it’s not just an American thing.

You know, I really wanted to write something about Winnenden the day it happened, but I just couldn’t.

It was just so senseless, so incredibly mindless, and too close to home somehow.

I was working that day – I work in TV news – and as the wires in their ceaseless, droning regularity upped the numbers over six hours first from two, then to five, to nine, to 11, to 14, to 15, to 16, to 17, then back down to 16, I remained, as usual and as is expected, cooly distant to it all.  Doing my job without thinking about the people involved, whether it’s a school shooting or another boiler-plate Baghdad bombing,  plane crash or 100-storey buildings collapsing into smoke and ash: just chasing after pictures, relaying info to colleagues and staying on top of it all to help make sure our shows were getting out OK.

Until exactly 1455, when about 20 seconds of video came across of a woman – maybe 50, 55 – seen from a long shot, her hands on her face as she’s breaking down in tears, buckling at the knees as a man turns to support her, another beside her at a cellphone perhaps trying to get information, then the next shot from another angle a little later of paramedics escorting the distraught woman to a safe area.

We’re all supposed to remain so professional.  So on the job.   We have to treat the pictures for their value and their content without being affected by them, but as I was phoning to offer them to the editor of the news exchanges as is my job, for the first time in nine years on the desk my voice was actually breaking.

As I saw those pictures come in I was suddenly flooded with thoughts that I could very easily have been the one standing there,  that it could have been my kid in that school, that my wife as a high school teacher could just as easily have been one of the teachers there, that I could one day be the one to get the call that would pretty much destroy the foundation of my life in this foreign outpost.

This in a work culture of passionate indifference, where maintaining a balance between commitment and dedication to the timely distribution of the facts must be balanced by a cool disengagement to their enormity.

I wasn’t the only one to have trouble keeping an iron gaze.

The chief of police talking to reporters in Winnenden that day stood and gave his statements in measured tones, but his eyes flooded wet when he said, “…we’re naturally doing everything we can to support the parents at this time, but I’ve been over there among them and I have to tell you, it’s damn hard to look them straight in the eye.”

I allowed myself to imagine how the parents must be feeling. It was fleeting, but it caught me off guard.  We’re all human, we can’t stop feelings, but like a surgeon with Tourette’s Syndrome, we have to be able to keep them switched off or be unable to function.

In the end I posted something frivolous about Obama chicken fingers which received dozens of comments, but somehow regret it.

Lost your job? Maybe that’s a good thing

With unemployment in what’s left of the world’s leading economy rising to its highest level in 25 years today, a lot of people are going to suffer as the tidal wave aftermath of Wall Street’s latest greed bubble washes over the rest of the world.

But losing your job isn’t bad news for everyone.

Take the case of my friend and fellow Canadian Douglas in London. We met in Hong Kong in late 1995 when he was being hired for a new weekly show at the station where I was working. Because they the management twits picked Douglas instead of me to host the new programme, I first saw him as a rival, but after a couple of days on the desk with him I soon got over myself, and we’ve been tight ever since.

Douglas has had a real Hong Kong career. He first worked in radio, then TV, then switched for the big bucks of public relations ’til he – quite understandably – couldn’t stand the stench of all the bullshit any longer, then went back to TV.

About two years ago, he got a job producing for a world-famous provider of television business news in London. I remember how excited he sounded on the phone from Hong Kong about landing the position, how he was finally getting out of this “small town” and hitting the big leagues to work on what’s happening in the heart of old world finance.

But like all expats who’ve already paid the price once for leaving home and establishing another one overseas, in moving to London he had to pay all over again, because in the meantime he’d built up such a good life over a dozen years in Hong Kong.

Douglas had good friends, a loving, long-term partner, a comfortable home, even a rag-top car in a city where driving is a luxury often associated with the very wealthy. And let’s face it: as a successful, white, middle-aged gay man in Hong Kong he was still a hot commodity. In London he’s as common as the man on the platform waiting for the 8:15.

So when Douglas told me yesterday that a show he’d been working on had been cancelled and he’d taken the buy-out they were offering him and his colleagues, I said to him: Fantastic!

Getting bought out is the best news he’s had to deal with in ages. Wu Hu! He can now take the cash, travel a bit, visit family back in Canada for a while before taking up a standing offer to return to the station where we met way back in the mid-nineties.

It’ll be the third time in a decade he’s gone back to them, but that’s OK. It not only demonstrates how highly they value his skills, it shows all of us how important it is never to burn your bridges and to remember who your friends are.

And instead of moaning about another dreary London morning, he’ll once again be able to enjoy breakfast on the terrace in the middle of February amid lush greenery, warm breezes and maybe even the sight of a passing cockatoo before heading out into the sunshine.

Nice life if you can live it.

Canadian blog awards results

Careful readers of this blog will recall that this has happened before.

I make it into the finals, yet come in last.

No matter! Back in 1977 the race was broadcast live on TV, the winner blew past everyone, set a record that stood for years, and went on to compete for Canada in the Olympics.

In this year’s Canadian Blog Awards the race was live on the Internet, the winner of Best Personal Blog blew by everyone, and if her latest post is anything to go by, who knows where she might end up?

Knitnut gets some shots of some Ottawa cops after they’ve roughed up a woman on a downtown street. She refuses to give in to their intimidation, keeps the photos and publishes them. I hope that post – and her blog – get the attention they deserve.

Knitnut actually won two categories. Best local blog as well.

As they noted on the page announcing the winners, the personal blog category was especially competitive. Based on the number of votes cast, even the fourth-place finisher would have won had that blog been slotted in other categories.

Thanks to all who voted for this blog, and once again to Indeterminacy for the nomination.

Second place went to No Ordinary Rollercoaster, Meg Fowler third, The Peach Pit fourth, and Under the Mad Hat fifth. By careful process of elimination, that puts me in sixth.

A total of 57 blogs were nominated, many of which I think should have made it to the finals. Check out these, for example:

Matthew Good

It’s like I’m mmmagic!

Rigo’s Days

Iraqi journalist throws shoe; bush shocked and awed

Remember Mad Magazine?   It used to be a regular drain on my allowance, but I haven’t read it for decades.

I used to look forward every month to a page they used to call Things We’d Like to See.

Sometimes they came true.  Like what I saw this morning, courtesy of one of my favourite reads.

I’m still laughing.

As he hurled his footwear, the man yells at Bush: This is a good-bye kiss from the Iraqi people, you dog!

Sources in Baghdad say reporters took up a collection for the guy’s family after the press conference.