So, I've decided to convert this blog into a weird-news blog because - well, frankly, there is no because. I've got the space. You, apparently have the time on your hands. So let's make fun of some sick, sad, stupid people together.
Where to start? Oh, so many choices. How about...
Here?
Gift horse surprises girl after pony mutilation
(This, by the way? Not at all funny, and weird only in a disturbing way. But you know what? I'm still gonna laugh at that headline for days to come. Sue me.)
Or here?
Ham-flavored soda!?
(Well. At least it isn't horse-flavored. Or pony...)
No, no. Definitely here.
Priest accused of stalking Conan O'Brian fit for trial
(Priest to judge: "He's how old? With that hair? My God, your honor, I'm sorry - he didn't look a day over 15!")
More to follow when I'm feeling weird. So, in other words, soon.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
FSU student diagnosed with meningitis.
Tallahassee Democrat, page 1B
Dec. 17, 2006
by Adam Weinstein
DEMOCRAT STAFF WRITER
As thousands of friends and family members converged on Tallahassee Saturday for FSU’s commencement exercises, university officials announced that a student living on campus was diagnosed with contagious bacterial meningitis earlier in the week.
“Individuals who were in closest contact with this student have already been identified, contacted by the Leon County Health Department and treated” with antibiotics, according to an email statement by Mary Coburn, FSU’s vice president for student affairs.
People who may have been exposed to the ailment commonly undergo treatment before a diagnosis is complete. That’s because meningitis, an infected swelling of the brain’s lining, or meninges, “is a serious illness which is fast-acting,” said Coburn.
According to the Web site for FSU’s Thagard Student Health Center, the potentially fatal illness can also result in “permanent brain damage, hearing loss, learning disability” or kidney failure. It’s especially prevalent among college-age students who live in close proximity, affecting 100-125 students per year nationwide.
Nearly 40,000 students are enrolled at FSU, interacting daily in classrooms, student unions and athletic facilities. FSU offers students a low-cost meningitis immunization, but it does not require them to be immunized to register and attend courses, according to the Health Center.
Casual contact with an infected person is considered “low risk” contact, Coburn stated.
Regardless, she implored students and staff members to seek medical attention immediately for symptoms “similar to a severe case of the flu,” especially a sore neck with a high fever.
Concerned individuals can contact FSU’s Thagard Student Health Center at 644-4567 of the Leon County Public Health Department at 487-3155.
Dec. 17, 2006
by Adam Weinstein
DEMOCRAT STAFF WRITER
As thousands of friends and family members converged on Tallahassee Saturday for FSU’s commencement exercises, university officials announced that a student living on campus was diagnosed with contagious bacterial meningitis earlier in the week.
“Individuals who were in closest contact with this student have already been identified, contacted by the Leon County Health Department and treated” with antibiotics, according to an email statement by Mary Coburn, FSU’s vice president for student affairs.
People who may have been exposed to the ailment commonly undergo treatment before a diagnosis is complete. That’s because meningitis, an infected swelling of the brain’s lining, or meninges, “is a serious illness which is fast-acting,” said Coburn.
According to the Web site for FSU’s Thagard Student Health Center, the potentially fatal illness can also result in “permanent brain damage, hearing loss, learning disability” or kidney failure. It’s especially prevalent among college-age students who live in close proximity, affecting 100-125 students per year nationwide.
Nearly 40,000 students are enrolled at FSU, interacting daily in classrooms, student unions and athletic facilities. FSU offers students a low-cost meningitis immunization, but it does not require them to be immunized to register and attend courses, according to the Health Center.
Casual contact with an infected person is considered “low risk” contact, Coburn stated.
Regardless, she implored students and staff members to seek medical attention immediately for symptoms “similar to a severe case of the flu,” especially a sore neck with a high fever.
Concerned individuals can contact FSU’s Thagard Student Health Center at 644-4567 of the Leon County Public Health Department at 487-3155.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
What a news day.
Huh. Interesting weekend so far. I did more journalism today than in my first two days of J-school. And I did it all from my porch.
First, there was the dog on 149th Street. Walking down Broadway to the subway, I notice an NYPD auxiliary standing in the street over this curly-haired, limping dog. Turns out the dog had darted across the street and been clipped in his rear legs by a passing car. Miraculously, he hadn't been run over or completely eviscerated. He just sat in the gutter, lapping up the attention paid him by the police officer and the crowd of about 20 that had formed to watch on the corner.
At one point, the dog stood to walk, letting out a small yelp of pain and rather deftly shifting his weight to his front paws, walking for a time on just those two, his limp posterior hanging like the legs of a sideshow performer in a walking handstand. I had time only to snap a few shots before the police van whisked the anonymous pup away, to a destination I can only assume was not a dog circus.
As I scrolled back through the photos later, I wondered. Was this news? It involved a well-meaning cop, a dog, and a careless driver. Certainly, it was news to that crowd of 20. Evidently, it was not news to the dog's owners, if he had any. There was no evidence of one.
Then there was the car crash. That came as I was heading back to my building from downtown, on the same intersection as the dog's unfortunate jaunt. A Civic had been turning into southbound traffic from 149th and pulled out right in front of a speeding Maxima. The damage to both cars was extensive. At home, in South Florida, I would never have given the mishap a second glance, except to settle in my mind that it didn't warrant rubbernecking. Yet on Broadway, even the mundane - a fried chicken shack, a homeless guy, a crippled dog - take on a novel siginifcance. And in a neighborhood where residents already seem to live on the streets rather than in the buildings, the crowd of onlookers quickly swelled to hundreds.
This, I thought, could be real news. I snapped my shots, pulled out my steno pad, and prepared to write a copy block that I dreamed might make a photo page of the Post or the Daily News. I took a moment to ponder the likelihood that I was the only writer in my Columbia class that might dream of the Post or the Daily News. Then I approached two police officers on the scene. One had heard a bang; the other was late on the scene. Neither cared to be quoted or volunteer their names.
First, there was the dog on 149th Street. Walking down Broadway to the subway, I notice an NYPD auxiliary standing in the street over this curly-haired, limping dog. Turns out the dog had darted across the street and been clipped in his rear legs by a passing car. Miraculously, he hadn't been run over or completely eviscerated. He just sat in the gutter, lapping up the attention paid him by the police officer and the crowd of about 20 that had formed to watch on the corner.
At one point, the dog stood to walk, letting out a small yelp of pain and rather deftly shifting his weight to his front paws, walking for a time on just those two, his limp posterior hanging like the legs of a sideshow performer in a walking handstand. I had time only to snap a few shots before the police van whisked the anonymous pup away, to a destination I can only assume was not a dog circus.As I scrolled back through the photos later, I wondered. Was this news? It involved a well-meaning cop, a dog, and a careless driver. Certainly, it was news to that crowd of 20. Evidently, it was not news to the dog's owners, if he had any. There was no evidence of one.
Then there was the car crash. That came as I was heading back to my building from downtown, on the same intersection as the dog's unfortunate jaunt. A Civic had been turning into southbound traffic from 149th and pulled out right in front of a speeding Maxima. The damage to both cars was extensive. At home, in South Florida, I would never have given the mishap a second glance, except to settle in my mind that it didn't warrant rubbernecking. Yet on Broadway, even the mundane - a fried chicken shack, a homeless guy, a crippled dog - take on a novel siginifcance. And in a neighborhood where residents already seem to live on the streets rather than in the buildings, the crowd of onlookers quickly swelled to hundreds.This, I thought, could be real news. I snapped my shots, pulled out my steno pad, and prepared to write a copy block that I dreamed might make a photo page of the Post or the Daily News. I took a moment to ponder the likelihood that I was the only writer in my Columbia class that might dream of the Post or the Daily News. Then I approached two police officers on the scene. One had heard a bang; the other was late on the scene. Neither cared to be quoted or volunteer their names.
Searching for real eyewitnesses, I spoke to a polite middle-aged Hispanic man about what he saw. He would identify himself only as Louis. I pressed for his last name for several minutes, explained it would only go into my notes, said there would be no trouble, but he and his daughter refused in the most pleasant of terms. After talking to a nearby friend of his, an Australian-born Kosovar who is a Broadway building superintendent, it occurred to me in my Ivy League wisdom: my witness didn't want his name used because he wasn't legally in the United States. He was a nice guy who had a family that depended on him. He couldn't risk the scrutiny.
After a few more photos, I approached the two police officers I took to be in charge. "I can't talk to you," the driver of the cruiser said. Should I call the precinct later? I asked. "No," replied his partner. "Take it up with DCPI." The Deputy Commissioner for Public Information acts as the entire police department's clearinghouse for information, and it is notoriously cagey about its job.
After things settle, I return home and call DCPI. Unsurprisingly, no one has called in from the 30 th Precinct regarding an auto collision. The sergeant at the end of the phone, trying to justify the lack of data, asks me: "Was it a fatal collision?" When I reply in the negative, he answers: "Then we won't get anything on it."
So now, as I write just a few moments later, I wonder: Why is a car crash, especially one in which all souls survived, news? Is it?
I pause. Then I tell myself the same thing, over and over in reply: It is news, if I write it.
Our town: SoHo of the South
Tallahassee Democrat, Aug. 11, 2006
By Adam Weinstein
I had a revelation at lunch the other day.
I was sitting in a little bagel joint near Lake Ella, mentally mapping out the responsibilities of a new job here at the Democrat, when I noticed three older working men enjoying their morning coffee at the next table. These guys wore jeans, faded T-shirts, ripped ballcaps and an impressive volume of free-range facial hair. If not for their age, I would have guessed that they'd just come from a construction site or a gun show.
But what really interested me was their table conversation. One man discussed his loving restoration of a century-old house in town, and all three piped up when the talk turned to furniture and art. It turned out that they'd all gone to First Friday, the monthly event that opens most of the city's art galleries to the public free of charge. A few of these burly bagel-munchers were artists themselves, and they began to rave about our town's rich cultural offerings as they pulled at their whiskers.
Discussing his friend's recent opening at a nearby studio, one group member exclaimed, "Tallahassee's just fun!"
This was profound to me. I'm new to Tallahassee, having spent most of my life in South Florida and my college years in Manhattan. When I first considered advanced study in international affairs, two schools accepted me: Boston University and Florida State University.
I chose FSU, and now, every time I tell friends or relatives that I moved to the Florida Panhandle for grad school, my reward is a baffled look and a silently-mouthed syllable: "Why?"
I understood the concerns at first. What's to learn in a sleepy capital where cattle, crackers and keggers outnumber newspaper subscribers?
If folks want a real high-brow experience, mocha lattes, literary discussions and art openings, they have to attend high-powered universities and reside in the hippest neighborhoods of New York, Boston or L.A.
Don't they?
Generations of stodgy intellectuals have passed down this received wisdom.
But sometimes even intellectuals can be dead wrong.
Tallahassee proves this. Like Madison, Wis., and Burlington, Vt., our big little city hosts an army of young, vibrant professionals and an inclusive cultural atmosphere that can't be beat. As one of the newest Tallahasseeans, I'd think we should bolster these trends and put our town on the map as a progressive mecca, a national model.
Ours is an amazingly diverse and tolerant town. Before moving here, I feared Tallahassee might confirm all those nasty rumors that city life instilled in me about the South and the Bible Belt. But I found a city where I could attend Episcopalian services, meditate with Buddhists and take Taste of Judaism classes - sometimes all in one day. Tallahassee is a place where my gay and lesbian friends, as well as my friends of color, are safe and welcome community members.
Entrepreneurship thrives among Tallahassee progressives, too. Stroll down to Lake Ella, Gaines Street or Railroad Square and you'll stumble upon Internet cafes, mom-and-pop eateries, second-hand bookshops, independent music stores and vintage clothing and furniture outlets run by capitalists with consciences. Sure, you'll find big corporate chains and box stores here, but in Tallahassee they compete with little guys that you won't see in larger cities like Miami or Tampa.
Then, of course, there is the art, the music and the plethora of parks.
Manhattan can eat its heart out.
Tallahassee's cultural richness is a well-kept secret, and that suits many townspeople just fine. We don't need a gentrified carbon copy of New York's pretentious Williamsburg or Philadelphia's pricey Manayunk neighborhoods. Besides, it's criminal to plow over any more of Tallahassee's beautiful open spaces and storied past for token improvements.
But until we beef up our progressive culture and wrap Tallahassee's image around it, out-of-towners will continue to scoff at the notion of our Panhandle paradise as an intellectual and artistic haven.
The hardest sell may be to Tallahassee residents who aren't aware of the benefits that young, intelligent progressives bring to town. Skeptics should check out the Cultural Resources Commission's online events calendar, so they can acquaint themselves with Tallahassee's best and brightest.
Its address, appropriately, is www.morethanyouthought.com
By Adam Weinstein
I had a revelation at lunch the other day.
I was sitting in a little bagel joint near Lake Ella, mentally mapping out the responsibilities of a new job here at the Democrat, when I noticed three older working men enjoying their morning coffee at the next table. These guys wore jeans, faded T-shirts, ripped ballcaps and an impressive volume of free-range facial hair. If not for their age, I would have guessed that they'd just come from a construction site or a gun show.
But what really interested me was their table conversation. One man discussed his loving restoration of a century-old house in town, and all three piped up when the talk turned to furniture and art. It turned out that they'd all gone to First Friday, the monthly event that opens most of the city's art galleries to the public free of charge. A few of these burly bagel-munchers were artists themselves, and they began to rave about our town's rich cultural offerings as they pulled at their whiskers.
Discussing his friend's recent opening at a nearby studio, one group member exclaimed, "Tallahassee's just fun!"
This was profound to me. I'm new to Tallahassee, having spent most of my life in South Florida and my college years in Manhattan. When I first considered advanced study in international affairs, two schools accepted me: Boston University and Florida State University.
I chose FSU, and now, every time I tell friends or relatives that I moved to the Florida Panhandle for grad school, my reward is a baffled look and a silently-mouthed syllable: "Why?"
I understood the concerns at first. What's to learn in a sleepy capital where cattle, crackers and keggers outnumber newspaper subscribers?
If folks want a real high-brow experience, mocha lattes, literary discussions and art openings, they have to attend high-powered universities and reside in the hippest neighborhoods of New York, Boston or L.A.
Don't they?
Generations of stodgy intellectuals have passed down this received wisdom.
But sometimes even intellectuals can be dead wrong.
Tallahassee proves this. Like Madison, Wis., and Burlington, Vt., our big little city hosts an army of young, vibrant professionals and an inclusive cultural atmosphere that can't be beat. As one of the newest Tallahasseeans, I'd think we should bolster these trends and put our town on the map as a progressive mecca, a national model.
Ours is an amazingly diverse and tolerant town. Before moving here, I feared Tallahassee might confirm all those nasty rumors that city life instilled in me about the South and the Bible Belt. But I found a city where I could attend Episcopalian services, meditate with Buddhists and take Taste of Judaism classes - sometimes all in one day. Tallahassee is a place where my gay and lesbian friends, as well as my friends of color, are safe and welcome community members.
Entrepreneurship thrives among Tallahassee progressives, too. Stroll down to Lake Ella, Gaines Street or Railroad Square and you'll stumble upon Internet cafes, mom-and-pop eateries, second-hand bookshops, independent music stores and vintage clothing and furniture outlets run by capitalists with consciences. Sure, you'll find big corporate chains and box stores here, but in Tallahassee they compete with little guys that you won't see in larger cities like Miami or Tampa.
Then, of course, there is the art, the music and the plethora of parks.
Manhattan can eat its heart out.
Tallahassee's cultural richness is a well-kept secret, and that suits many townspeople just fine. We don't need a gentrified carbon copy of New York's pretentious Williamsburg or Philadelphia's pricey Manayunk neighborhoods. Besides, it's criminal to plow over any more of Tallahassee's beautiful open spaces and storied past for token improvements.
But until we beef up our progressive culture and wrap Tallahassee's image around it, out-of-towners will continue to scoff at the notion of our Panhandle paradise as an intellectual and artistic haven.
The hardest sell may be to Tallahassee residents who aren't aware of the benefits that young, intelligent progressives bring to town. Skeptics should check out the Cultural Resources Commission's online events calendar, so they can acquaint themselves with Tallahassee's best and brightest.
Its address, appropriately, is www.morethanyouthought.com
9/11: In the terror, we find connections
Tallahassee Democrat, Monday, Sep. 11, 2006
In the terror, we find connections
By Adam Weinstein
Everyone has a 9/11 story. Mine has a difference or two.
You see, the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11 saved my grandmother's life. I haven't told that story much in the past five years. But I want to tell it now.
Sept. 11 was a Tuesday, the second day of my senior year at Columbia University. It was warm and bright when I woke up. To the north, I could see sunlight glint off Yankee Stadium's steel crown. To the south, though, there was a cloud touching the Lower Manhattan pavement, crawling slowly toward Brooklyn.
I spent the morning walking toward that cloud, hoping to check up on a family friend who worked downtown. At the Flatiron Building, I permitted myself a glimpse skyward. To the building's right, the sky was a shocking late-summer blue that every New Yorker knows. To the left, black matter obscured all daylight at ground level. Above that, lighter wisps of gray curled off and rose upward, like the souls of those killed transiting to a more peaceful scene.
I silently cursed myself for such a sappy thought in the midst of all this murder and terror. But then I noticed that everyone around me - joggers, businessmen, students, cops, cabbies - stared at that cloud the same way. We were all joined intimately in our pain and fear, as close as humans probably ever get, and we all wished it hadn't taken this blow to make us so respectful of each other.
That cloud lingered as we tried to donate blood in mile-long hospital lines.
That cloud lingered as my college tried to resume classes, two days later. Few of us showed up.
That cloud lingered as I retreated north, away from the city, on a train bound for my family's hometown in the Hudson Valley.
As I hid upstate, a friend could tell I was still wrestling with that cloud when she told me, "You should look up your grandmother. Try to take your mind off things."
That grandmother was the last living relative of mine in this Catskill Mountain town, a shut-in, a stereotypical "crazy cat lady" about whom I knew very little. That distressing September week seemed a fitting time to reconnect with her.
Only she didn't answer my phone calls. Nor did she open the door to her apartment when I came knocking. But I could hear her calling, faintly, through a window. I broke in.
So it was that I reunited with my grandmother on a linoleum kitchen floor, where she had fallen two days earlier, unable to rise or yell for help. Cancer had spread to her brain and thrown off her balance.
Two years later, the cancer took her away, but not before I helped her into a hospice, visited her, and swapped stories and familial sentiments.
Somewhere in all this, around the anniversary of the day that cloud changed all of us, it sunk all the way in: If not for the horrors of 9/11, if terror hadn't chased me upstate, I never would have called on my grandmother.
And neither would anyone else.
In some respects, it's a story like anyone else's. We connect with each other by sharing how we suffered - and coped.
And yet, my recollections are so contrary to the story lines we've come to expect out of 9/11. One of the less-fortunate expectations we've developed is that the tellers of these stories usually have agendas. 9/11 has been invoked so often to sell copy and make political arguments that it falls on our ears nowadays with a dull, familiar thud. We survivors are all ready to get on with our lives. But we cannot completely forget.
Maybe the answer is to trademark the name "9/11" itself. We could levy a tax on everyone who invokes it. Everyday folks sharing their points of view could pay only a few cents. TV pundits and politicians would have to fork over huge sums.
Instead of giving this money to any charity, individual or government, we could just convert it into pennies and save it until the next anniversary rolls around. On that day, in a simple ceremony at Ground Zero (that name, too, will have to be trademarked), we could pour all the pennies into a monumental container for the world to see, so that our remembrance of 9/11 - how we did it and how often - would itself become a part of the public record.
Until then, though, consider this my two cents' worth of remembrance.
In the terror, we find connections
By Adam Weinstein
Everyone has a 9/11 story. Mine has a difference or two.
You see, the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11 saved my grandmother's life. I haven't told that story much in the past five years. But I want to tell it now.
Sept. 11 was a Tuesday, the second day of my senior year at Columbia University. It was warm and bright when I woke up. To the north, I could see sunlight glint off Yankee Stadium's steel crown. To the south, though, there was a cloud touching the Lower Manhattan pavement, crawling slowly toward Brooklyn.
I spent the morning walking toward that cloud, hoping to check up on a family friend who worked downtown. At the Flatiron Building, I permitted myself a glimpse skyward. To the building's right, the sky was a shocking late-summer blue that every New Yorker knows. To the left, black matter obscured all daylight at ground level. Above that, lighter wisps of gray curled off and rose upward, like the souls of those killed transiting to a more peaceful scene.
I silently cursed myself for such a sappy thought in the midst of all this murder and terror. But then I noticed that everyone around me - joggers, businessmen, students, cops, cabbies - stared at that cloud the same way. We were all joined intimately in our pain and fear, as close as humans probably ever get, and we all wished it hadn't taken this blow to make us so respectful of each other.
That cloud lingered as we tried to donate blood in mile-long hospital lines.
That cloud lingered as my college tried to resume classes, two days later. Few of us showed up.
That cloud lingered as I retreated north, away from the city, on a train bound for my family's hometown in the Hudson Valley.
As I hid upstate, a friend could tell I was still wrestling with that cloud when she told me, "You should look up your grandmother. Try to take your mind off things."
That grandmother was the last living relative of mine in this Catskill Mountain town, a shut-in, a stereotypical "crazy cat lady" about whom I knew very little. That distressing September week seemed a fitting time to reconnect with her.
Only she didn't answer my phone calls. Nor did she open the door to her apartment when I came knocking. But I could hear her calling, faintly, through a window. I broke in.
So it was that I reunited with my grandmother on a linoleum kitchen floor, where she had fallen two days earlier, unable to rise or yell for help. Cancer had spread to her brain and thrown off her balance.
Two years later, the cancer took her away, but not before I helped her into a hospice, visited her, and swapped stories and familial sentiments.
Somewhere in all this, around the anniversary of the day that cloud changed all of us, it sunk all the way in: If not for the horrors of 9/11, if terror hadn't chased me upstate, I never would have called on my grandmother.
And neither would anyone else.
In some respects, it's a story like anyone else's. We connect with each other by sharing how we suffered - and coped.
And yet, my recollections are so contrary to the story lines we've come to expect out of 9/11. One of the less-fortunate expectations we've developed is that the tellers of these stories usually have agendas. 9/11 has been invoked so often to sell copy and make political arguments that it falls on our ears nowadays with a dull, familiar thud. We survivors are all ready to get on with our lives. But we cannot completely forget.
Maybe the answer is to trademark the name "9/11" itself. We could levy a tax on everyone who invokes it. Everyday folks sharing their points of view could pay only a few cents. TV pundits and politicians would have to fork over huge sums.
Instead of giving this money to any charity, individual or government, we could just convert it into pennies and save it until the next anniversary rolls around. On that day, in a simple ceremony at Ground Zero (that name, too, will have to be trademarked), we could pour all the pennies into a monumental container for the world to see, so that our remembrance of 9/11 - how we did it and how often - would itself become a part of the public record.
Until then, though, consider this my two cents' worth of remembrance.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Here's one gang that's out to take your money
Tallahassee Democrat, June 23, 2007
Here's one gang that's out to take your money
By Adam Weinstein
I grew up in South Florida, where there are gang shootings in shopping malls and you make a point of avoiding certain neighborhoods. At my inner-city high school, dice games in the hall sometimes ended in stabbings, and you could always buy an assortment of drugs in the bus lot at lunch time. Compared with childhood, my college years in New York City, where I lived and worked on the edge of Spanish Harlem, seemed like a cake walk.
So forgive me for sounding cynical when I ask: What Tallahassee gang problem?
Seriously. This city is the nicest place I've ever lived. Yet for the past year, city and county officials have gone to Herculean lengths to portray the Big Bend as New Jack City.
In a succession of news conferences and town-hall meetings, these politicians and law-enforcement professionals have scared the citizenry silly, telling them how to take action if little Johnny and Jane start hanging out with a new clique, wearing one color of clothing and scrawling “nonartistic” doodles in notebooks or on walls.
Wow. Imagine. Adolescents acting cagey, defiant and creative.
Call the vice squad and tell them to shut down that Hot Topic store in the mall!
Don't misunderstand me. Is one gang member in Tallahassee too many? Absolutely. And is doing nothing ever a prudent law-enforcement strategy? Absolutely not. But “gang activity” is one of those catch-alls, like “homeland security” or “weapons of mass destruction,” that can mean nothing and be used to justify everything.
Just ask the experts. In the middle of last spring's public-relations onslaught, a Leon County detective and gang specialist told WFSU-FM that, compared with gangs of yore, local groups “now are just not as organized. . . . We can't look at our groups and say, 'OK, we can compare them to the gangs in Chicago and Miami and L.A. and New York.' ”
When one resident asked if gangs were to blame for a specific graffiti design that was popping up around town, the detective answered that the scribbles were not gang “tags”; they were merely the work of some random kids starved for attention.
So where are all the alleged hoodlums? The officials who devised spring's meet-and-greets are long on rhetoric but short on details. When pinned down, they claim there are a whopping 100 to 200 gang members among Leon County's quarter of a million residents. But, as that county detective reminded WFSU listeners, “Gang membership in and of itself is not necessarily a crime.”
In other words, you and I don't have much to worry about.
But local politicians sure do. The Legislature just passed deep statewide cuts in property taxes, an idea that's popular with voters but not with local officials whose budgets rely on tax revenues. What's that got to do with "The Gangs of Leon County”? Plenty.
Since Gov. Charlie Crist and the Legislature floated the tax-reform idea, nobody has fought it harder than the Big Bend's elected leaders. Leon County Sheriff Larry Campbell, who also heads the Florida Sheriffs Association, told legislators he'd have to cut “school resource officers, helicopters, school crossing guards” if taxes went down - resources he'll desperately need to fight the not-yet-declared War on Gangs.
County Commissioner Cliff Thaell echoed those sentiments. If local Caesars didn't get their usual tributes, he opined, “We would be very challenged to even fund mandatory services like law enforcement, the jail and the constitutional offices.” Count Tallahassee Mayor John Marks and Assistant Leon County Administrator Alan Rosenzweig among the other politicians who have voiced similar warnings.
Give them credit. No politician ever lost his or her fortunes by playing on the public's fears. And the “gang activity” phantom menace is the mother of all fear-mongering stunts, one that makes you reflexively question that tax cut, your liberties, and all the other vagaries of human existence. It plays on your most pre-rational, knee-jerk fears: fear for your child's safety, fear of crime, fear of poverty, fear of out-of-towners, immigrants, minorities and inexplicable hand gestures.
Don't give in to your fears, Tallahassee. The cut in property taxes will force some local belt-tightening, but it's reckless and irresponsible for leaders to intimidate you into thinking crime will soar as a result. That's all they're trying to do by putting "gangs" on the tip of everyone's tongue. It's a shameless ploy to manipulate your emotions and your votes.
Besides, to the extent that gangs actually do exist in Leon County, our outstanding law-enforcement professionals have proven they can handle it.
Now, if only they'd protect us from that local gang of politicians.
Adam Weinstein, a recent copy editor at the Tallahassee Democrat, returns to Columbia University this summer to work on a graduate degree. Contact him at aw333@columbia.edu.
Here's one gang that's out to take your money
By Adam Weinstein
I grew up in South Florida, where there are gang shootings in shopping malls and you make a point of avoiding certain neighborhoods. At my inner-city high school, dice games in the hall sometimes ended in stabbings, and you could always buy an assortment of drugs in the bus lot at lunch time. Compared with childhood, my college years in New York City, where I lived and worked on the edge of Spanish Harlem, seemed like a cake walk.
So forgive me for sounding cynical when I ask: What Tallahassee gang problem?
Seriously. This city is the nicest place I've ever lived. Yet for the past year, city and county officials have gone to Herculean lengths to portray the Big Bend as New Jack City.
In a succession of news conferences and town-hall meetings, these politicians and law-enforcement professionals have scared the citizenry silly, telling them how to take action if little Johnny and Jane start hanging out with a new clique, wearing one color of clothing and scrawling “nonartistic” doodles in notebooks or on walls.
Wow. Imagine. Adolescents acting cagey, defiant and creative.
Call the vice squad and tell them to shut down that Hot Topic store in the mall!
Don't misunderstand me. Is one gang member in Tallahassee too many? Absolutely. And is doing nothing ever a prudent law-enforcement strategy? Absolutely not. But “gang activity” is one of those catch-alls, like “homeland security” or “weapons of mass destruction,” that can mean nothing and be used to justify everything.
Just ask the experts. In the middle of last spring's public-relations onslaught, a Leon County detective and gang specialist told WFSU-FM that, compared with gangs of yore, local groups “now are just not as organized. . . . We can't look at our groups and say, 'OK, we can compare them to the gangs in Chicago and Miami and L.A. and New York.' ”
When one resident asked if gangs were to blame for a specific graffiti design that was popping up around town, the detective answered that the scribbles were not gang “tags”; they were merely the work of some random kids starved for attention.
So where are all the alleged hoodlums? The officials who devised spring's meet-and-greets are long on rhetoric but short on details. When pinned down, they claim there are a whopping 100 to 200 gang members among Leon County's quarter of a million residents. But, as that county detective reminded WFSU listeners, “Gang membership in and of itself is not necessarily a crime.”
In other words, you and I don't have much to worry about.
But local politicians sure do. The Legislature just passed deep statewide cuts in property taxes, an idea that's popular with voters but not with local officials whose budgets rely on tax revenues. What's that got to do with "The Gangs of Leon County”? Plenty.
Since Gov. Charlie Crist and the Legislature floated the tax-reform idea, nobody has fought it harder than the Big Bend's elected leaders. Leon County Sheriff Larry Campbell, who also heads the Florida Sheriffs Association, told legislators he'd have to cut “school resource officers, helicopters, school crossing guards” if taxes went down - resources he'll desperately need to fight the not-yet-declared War on Gangs.
County Commissioner Cliff Thaell echoed those sentiments. If local Caesars didn't get their usual tributes, he opined, “We would be very challenged to even fund mandatory services like law enforcement, the jail and the constitutional offices.” Count Tallahassee Mayor John Marks and Assistant Leon County Administrator Alan Rosenzweig among the other politicians who have voiced similar warnings.
Give them credit. No politician ever lost his or her fortunes by playing on the public's fears. And the “gang activity” phantom menace is the mother of all fear-mongering stunts, one that makes you reflexively question that tax cut, your liberties, and all the other vagaries of human existence. It plays on your most pre-rational, knee-jerk fears: fear for your child's safety, fear of crime, fear of poverty, fear of out-of-towners, immigrants, minorities and inexplicable hand gestures.
Don't give in to your fears, Tallahassee. The cut in property taxes will force some local belt-tightening, but it's reckless and irresponsible for leaders to intimidate you into thinking crime will soar as a result. That's all they're trying to do by putting "gangs" on the tip of everyone's tongue. It's a shameless ploy to manipulate your emotions and your votes.
Besides, to the extent that gangs actually do exist in Leon County, our outstanding law-enforcement professionals have proven they can handle it.
Now, if only they'd protect us from that local gang of politicians.
Adam Weinstein, a recent copy editor at the Tallahassee Democrat, returns to Columbia University this summer to work on a graduate degree. Contact him at aw333@columbia.edu.
Gun control: The juvenile and pointless debate continues
Tallahassee Democrat, May 21, 2007
Gun control: The juvenile and pointless debate continues
By Adam Weinstein
My father is a gun nut. He collects them, new ones and old ones, and he derives unfathomable glee from shooting, cleaning and studying them. Thanks to him, I can field-strip an M-16, shoot a Winchester '86 and tell the difference between a matchlock and a flintlock.
But when I turned 21 and applied for a Florida carry permit like Dad's, he didn't do cartwheels or take me window shopping for a double-action hand cannon. His only acknowledgment was to take me out to the side of a road and pull me down beside the remnants of a recently flattened possum.
"Dead," Dad intoned, "is dead. No replays, no extra lives, no do-overs. Just like this road kill."
This was not mere eccentricity on my pop's part. He wanted me to acknowledge a simple truth: Guns are lethal instruments, and they are not for everybody. Not long after, I decided that, except for an occasional weekend trip to the range, guns were not for me.
All of which makes it hard for me to understand why, even after a heartbreak like the one at Virginia Tech last month, the debate over gun control remains as juvenile and pointless as ever.
On one hand, you have the National Rifle Association claiming to speak for all gun owners. Apparently, though, its constituency doesn't include my family of gun owners, since we believe in more rigorous background checks, gun traces, and limits on the ownership of watermelon-exploding .50-caliber Barrett sniper's rifles.
On the other hand, you have one-note liberal groups like the Brady Campaign and the American Civil Liberties Union, who consider gun ownership too insidious to deserve the same protections afforded free speech or due process.
Lost in the middle, I fear, are gun owners like my father - and other middle-of-the-road citizens - who appreciate the right of self-defense, but want it to come with greater responsibilities. In the marketplace of ideas, gun-policy moderates don't even rate a kiosk.
Why is it so hard to reach reasonable compromises on gun ownership?
One scholar has an answer. Gary Kleck, a criminology professor at FSU, spent the last three decades researching the relationship between guns and violence in America. But his latest research focuses on the gun debate itself.
Its conclusion: The dialogue on gun rights has been hijacked and slickly packaged by self-styled culture warriors. Rather than weighing evidence, these factions encourage citizens like you to take cues from your membership in an in-group.
"People support gun control," Kleck says, "because they're in the cultural groups that are hostile to gun owners." The data suggest that those groups include Northerners, Jews and Catholics, women and the upper middle classes. Among their members, the gun debate isn't about assault weapons, mental-health checks or Teflon bullets: It's about the senselessness of gun ownership in their worldview, period.
Women, in particular, are likely to see "alleged defensive gun use as fraudulent," Kleck says, where men are more likely to approach guns as "useful tools." Likewise, the data show Southerners, Protestants and the economically depressed are probably pro-guns - more due to tradition than reason.
Kleck maintains that the culture clash in gun policy is especially obvious in his workplace, the ivory tower. Academic researchers fit the cultural mold of anti-gun Americans. Consequently, he says, "Many will say, 'We don't care how many surveys have been done (that are) inherently in favor of self-defense as a justification.' Facts don't affect your cultural animosities."
That's a shame, because the facts in his earlier studies provide food for thought. Guns, he concluded, are "instruments that have the same impact on aggression and defense. In both cases," he says, "they empower the possessor." In other words, guns make crime easier - but they also make self-defense easier.
Could it be possible that pro-gunners and anti-gunners are both right? Absolutely. There's plenty of fertile ground for compromise.
"Most gun owners favor moderate controls," Kleck believes. Likewise, "There's a certain amount of sympathy for gun owners among rank-and-file ACLU members," he argues. And he should know: He's a member of the ACLU and Amnesty International, both historically anti-gun groups.
The problem is, there are big incentives to the game of culturally divisive politics. In this atmosphere, most Americans won't take time to sift through the complex statistics collected on crime and guns. They'll just take marching orders from interest groups led by folks "like them" - groups that will steer them away from thoughtful reflection and toward the slopes of righteousness.
So how do we rise above the rhetoric for a progressive but constitutionally fair gun-policy compromise? It all depends on our efforts to promote "an educational system that produces a truly engaged citizenry," Kleck suggests. But it won't be easy. As he puts it: "I'm not optimistic about people putting aside likes and dislikes that they've held for decades."
Adam Weinstein, a recent copy editor at the Tallahassee Democrat, returns to Columbia University this summer to work on a graduate degree. Contact him at damnthetorpedoes@hotmail.com.
Gun control: The juvenile and pointless debate continues
By Adam Weinstein
My father is a gun nut. He collects them, new ones and old ones, and he derives unfathomable glee from shooting, cleaning and studying them. Thanks to him, I can field-strip an M-16, shoot a Winchester '86 and tell the difference between a matchlock and a flintlock.
But when I turned 21 and applied for a Florida carry permit like Dad's, he didn't do cartwheels or take me window shopping for a double-action hand cannon. His only acknowledgment was to take me out to the side of a road and pull me down beside the remnants of a recently flattened possum.
"Dead," Dad intoned, "is dead. No replays, no extra lives, no do-overs. Just like this road kill."
This was not mere eccentricity on my pop's part. He wanted me to acknowledge a simple truth: Guns are lethal instruments, and they are not for everybody. Not long after, I decided that, except for an occasional weekend trip to the range, guns were not for me.
All of which makes it hard for me to understand why, even after a heartbreak like the one at Virginia Tech last month, the debate over gun control remains as juvenile and pointless as ever.
On one hand, you have the National Rifle Association claiming to speak for all gun owners. Apparently, though, its constituency doesn't include my family of gun owners, since we believe in more rigorous background checks, gun traces, and limits on the ownership of watermelon-exploding .50-caliber Barrett sniper's rifles.
On the other hand, you have one-note liberal groups like the Brady Campaign and the American Civil Liberties Union, who consider gun ownership too insidious to deserve the same protections afforded free speech or due process.
Lost in the middle, I fear, are gun owners like my father - and other middle-of-the-road citizens - who appreciate the right of self-defense, but want it to come with greater responsibilities. In the marketplace of ideas, gun-policy moderates don't even rate a kiosk.
Why is it so hard to reach reasonable compromises on gun ownership?
One scholar has an answer. Gary Kleck, a criminology professor at FSU, spent the last three decades researching the relationship between guns and violence in America. But his latest research focuses on the gun debate itself.
Its conclusion: The dialogue on gun rights has been hijacked and slickly packaged by self-styled culture warriors. Rather than weighing evidence, these factions encourage citizens like you to take cues from your membership in an in-group.
"People support gun control," Kleck says, "because they're in the cultural groups that are hostile to gun owners." The data suggest that those groups include Northerners, Jews and Catholics, women and the upper middle classes. Among their members, the gun debate isn't about assault weapons, mental-health checks or Teflon bullets: It's about the senselessness of gun ownership in their worldview, period.
Women, in particular, are likely to see "alleged defensive gun use as fraudulent," Kleck says, where men are more likely to approach guns as "useful tools." Likewise, the data show Southerners, Protestants and the economically depressed are probably pro-guns - more due to tradition than reason.
Kleck maintains that the culture clash in gun policy is especially obvious in his workplace, the ivory tower. Academic researchers fit the cultural mold of anti-gun Americans. Consequently, he says, "Many will say, 'We don't care how many surveys have been done (that are) inherently in favor of self-defense as a justification.' Facts don't affect your cultural animosities."
That's a shame, because the facts in his earlier studies provide food for thought. Guns, he concluded, are "instruments that have the same impact on aggression and defense. In both cases," he says, "they empower the possessor." In other words, guns make crime easier - but they also make self-defense easier.
Could it be possible that pro-gunners and anti-gunners are both right? Absolutely. There's plenty of fertile ground for compromise.
"Most gun owners favor moderate controls," Kleck believes. Likewise, "There's a certain amount of sympathy for gun owners among rank-and-file ACLU members," he argues. And he should know: He's a member of the ACLU and Amnesty International, both historically anti-gun groups.
The problem is, there are big incentives to the game of culturally divisive politics. In this atmosphere, most Americans won't take time to sift through the complex statistics collected on crime and guns. They'll just take marching orders from interest groups led by folks "like them" - groups that will steer them away from thoughtful reflection and toward the slopes of righteousness.
So how do we rise above the rhetoric for a progressive but constitutionally fair gun-policy compromise? It all depends on our efforts to promote "an educational system that produces a truly engaged citizenry," Kleck suggests. But it won't be easy. As he puts it: "I'm not optimistic about people putting aside likes and dislikes that they've held for decades."
Adam Weinstein, a recent copy editor at the Tallahassee Democrat, returns to Columbia University this summer to work on a graduate degree. Contact him at damnthetorpedoes@hotmail.com.
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