Oh, This Guy is Just Precious!

Have you ever heard of "Coldplay?" Neither have I, but apparently they're a band. One thing I love about being 50 (maybe the only thing) is that being cool or not being cool matters not a bit. And that includes knowing the names of the popular bands. But I digress.

Anyway you just have to see this young man's definition of "slavery." Read this bit from the website This Is London:

Coldplay lead singer Chris Martin today launched an attack on his record label EMI and the company's shareholders.

It came after EMI, the world's third-largest music company, warned that profits would be lower because the band took longer than expected to finish their first studio album in three years.

But as Coldplay prepared for a concert in New York to promote their new album, called X&Y, Martin said: "I don't really care about EMI. I'm not really concerned about that.

"I think shareholders are the great evil of this modern world."

Martin told reporters at Manhattan's Beacon Theatre that the band was uncomfortable that they sell so many albums they can affect a major corporation's stock price.

"It's very strange for us that we spent 18 months in the studio just trying to make songs that make us feel a certain way and then suddenly become part of this corporate machine," Martin said backstage.

He criticised what he called "the slavery that we are all under to shareholders". However, having sold 20 million albums worldwide to date, their album release on 7 June and subsequent two-month tour of America in August and September will play a large role in determining EMI's profits.

Does your heart not just bleed for young Mr. Martin? To think that he and his band are so uncomfortable about being part of a corporate machine that he thinks of himself as a slave is just... just tragic!

I have an idea for you, Mr. Martin. One that should make you feel much better. First, if all you want to do is to "make songs" that make you feel "a certain way," then go ahead and rip up your contract with EMI. Go ahead! You'll feel great! Then you can just make songs all day and all night wherever and whenever you want to. Then, go to the bank and draw out all of your money. Divide it into two piles. Give half of it to poor, deserving people. And give half of it to me.

Do it! Come on! It'll make you "feel a certain way!" It'll also make the poor deserving people who benefit from your largesse feel a certain way. And it'll make me feel a certain way: Rich.

No need to thank me. I'll be waiting for your check. Or cheque. Or whatever.

Dumb "Polls"

It was reported in today's Centre Daily Times (State College, PA) that police will be working with psychic from Calfornia in an effort to find District Attorney Ray Gricar, who's been missing for about a month now. And I suppose it would be easy to bat away an entire spring afternoon discussing this weird case and the merits of engaging a psychic.

But the thing that struck me in the CDT article was this: a Web poll which asks the question: "What do you think? Will psychic Carla Baron be able to aid in the search for Ray Gricar?"

Just how dumb is this "poll?" What on earth difference will it make to anyone what anyone else thinks about whether a psychic can help? For that matter, who cares what anyone thinks about whether a psychic can help?

If you look just about anywhere these days, you'll see similar "polls." For one thing, they're completely unscientific, in that they can be easily rigged: you can vote as often as you'd like. And for that reason alone, they are entirely useless in gauging anything.

The only thing I can think of that may be more of a waste of time than creating or participating in these ridiculous surveys is if I were to write even one more word about them.

Saturday as the Sun Rises...

If you're visiting St. Bee for the first time, particularly from State College Magazine, welcome! There's some Diet Coke in the fridge -- help yourself.

I haven't been blogging lately as much as I'd like to. I recently started putting in a lot of hours at Penn State Public Broadcasting helping to get ready for the move to Innovation Park. With any luck, I'll soon be making other positive changes in my professional life as well, and have sort of been on pins and needles lately waiting to see what's next. I will fill in the details as things develop, but let's just say if you could shoot some positive vibes my way, I'd appreciate it.

This move from the old Wagner Annex to the brand-spankin' new Outreach Building is quite an undertaking, as you might imagine. WPSX-TV has been there in Wagner for about 40 years now, and as I see the planning that has gone into this move, so there will be virtually no disruption in service, it just boggles the mind. Of course, my mind is relatively easy to boggle. But there are tens of thousands of details that must be considered and planned for. The move will take place in stages, over a number of weeks, some of which are planned down to the hour. Let's just say it's somewhat more involved than throwing all one's worldly possessions into the back of a pick-up truck and making a few trips back and forth across town.

I'll be writing an article on the move for Pennsylvania Business Central sometime in the next few weeks.

I toured the new building a couple of weeks ago, and it is just beautiful. Wagner Annex is windowless, cramped and dark. The new place is spacious, full of light and air, and is undoubtedly one of the finest broadcast and production facilities in the state. It is something that Penn State -- and the community -- can be very proud of.

I have to say that in the time I have been associated with Penn State Public Broadcasting, I have really come to love it. The dedication of its staff,as well as the quality of its programming and production, have been truly inspiring to me. I have absolutely no desire to ever return to the world of commercial broadcasting. No one in the commercial television realm here in central Pennsylvania can hold a candle to the quality of work that comes from WPSX-TV. I think particularly of Raise The Song: The History of Penn State, which was produced by my friend Pat Mansell. It's a fascinating documentary, and one that rivals anything seen nationally. You'll never find that sort of work on any of the commercial network affiliates 'round these parts.

I had no idea where this post was going this morning; didn't know it would turn into a paean to Penn State Public Broadcasting, but I'm glad it did. More later...

End Of The Line

I have started posting my State College Magazine column for the previous month, once the new issue comes out. Here's the End of the Line for April:

The End Of The Line
by Steve Biddle

There have been, in recent weeks, two deplorable incidents on the Penn State University Park campus. The first one took place in February, when Penn State Black Caucus President Ed Smith said he had been verbally assaulted. Apparently, some slobbering hulk shouted racial slurs and a death threat at him from a window. This resulted in the organization of a No More Hate Rally, during which demands were made on the University to do something about racial tensions on campus.

The other incident took place in late March. Some pointy-headed cretin or group of cretins (what would a group of cretins be called? A herd? A flock?) attempted to share its philosophy by spray-painting the word “tang” in bright orange on several buildings. Why “tang?” Who knows? A couple of fires were also set during this celebration of free speech. University police estimated total damage at more than 100-thousand dollars.

I submit to you the theory that these two incidents have a great deal in common, and that they were promulgated by, if not the exact same individuals, at least the same type of individuals: jerks. I may be going out on a limb here, but I believe that the incident involving Mr. Smith has far less to do with real racist attitude and a climate of hate and tension than it has to do with jerks. Probably just one jerk. Probably just one drunken jerk. That doesn’t make the incident any more pleasant or any less frightening, but I think it does help to put it in perspective.

There are other, stronger names for jerks, but one of the most common cannot be used in a civilized forum such as State College Magazine. It is, let us just say, uh... orifice-oriented.

It is my strong belief that the huge majority of people everywhere are good, decent, well-meaning folks, who go through their lives trying to do the right thing. And then there are the jerks. In the brotherhood of man (and, of course, woman) the jerks are our common adversary. They drive boom cars, let their dogs bark all night, cut in line, and litter. They are nasty and belligerent neighbors. They are bullies. They are foul-mouthed in public. They are boastful, brash, crass and obnoxious. They are white, black, Latino, male, female, rich, poor, highly-educated and illiterate. Their ranks cut across all races, religions and demographics. They are jerks.

And it is they who are the scourge of the Earth. Are some of them racists? No doubt. In fact I’d go so far as to say that among the racist population, jerkdom is pretty prevalent. And it is they against whom the rest of us must unite. And how do we do this? It’s easy: We treat each other with respect and courtesy, and expect the same in return. We steer clear of negative people. These things are not always easy, but they are certainly worth the effort. The people who populate our worlds are reflections of our individual attitudes, and we tend to get what we expect. If we approach the world expecting hostility, nastiness and confrontation, that is exactly what we get. If, on the other hand, we expect civility, friendliness and cooperation, that is the world we inhabit.

One of Gary Larsen’s great “The Far Side” cartoons showed a house with a group of nasty-looking people sitting on its front porch. A sign over the house read something like “Home For the Terminally Unpleasant.” Sometimes I think that’s a pretty good idea.

By the way, a small self-indulgence if you don’t mind: I recently started a blog, more or less for my own amusement. I don’t know at this point exactly what direction it’ll take, so I’m not making any grand promises. It’s called “St. Bee,” for reasons explained there, and can be found at http://stbee.blogspot.com. I invite you to stop by if you’re on line; comments are always welcome.

Oh My! Look At The Time!

Well, this is just inexcusable! All of a sudden it's been more than a week since I've added anything to this blog. Not, of course, that I've noticed a crowd outside the doors, clamoring for more or anything. And, well, I have been busy. Waaaay busy. But that's no excuse for this lapse. So to jump start today, James Lileks from today's Bleat, and his comparison of analog and digital clocks... doesn't this just speak to you? Here it is:

DADDY! LOOK AT THE TIME! Gnat in the doorway. I checked the clock: hallelujah. She’d been up late last night and slept in as well. I installed a screen saver on her computer that tells time in digital format – looks just like the old digital clocks that flipped a card over every minute, and so now she reads time, more or less.

I prefer analog clocks, myself. I was a kid when the digitals came out, and of course everyone had to have one – the Panasonic in the parent’s bedroom that gave a tiny tick! Every time the card turned over, the digital watch the size of a Big Little Book, the kitchen model with glowing red LEDs. The future! And how charmless it was, really. Yes, it was precise, and while there was a certain thrill in knowing it was 10:17, not a little past a quarter after, that sort of information ruins my life to this day. I’m one of those people who is always on time, and abhors lateness. You tell me to be there at noon, my hand is poised to knock at 11:59:59. Digital clocks make it possible for me to be punctual, but they also tell me how late I’m going to be. Digital clocks make the hour a pack of slick cards, and every day is an endless deal; analogues make the hour a soft stick of butter, carved up in pliant pats. No one looks at an analog clock that reads 2:17 and thinks 2:17 right away; you think a quarter after melts into 2:20. If you grow up in a school that had a big clock over the door, the bottom of the hour has a certain power – when the minute hand begins its climb up from the basement of the Six, the hour is practically over. At least if you don’t look at the clock for a while.

Read it all...