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Fargo Killed My Grandfather

Gramma and I stood on opposite sides of the rented hospital bed each holding one of his hands. He took what I knew was his last breath. It was the least labored one he’d taken in a day. We stood there. Grampa lay there.

Gramma said, “I think he’s gone, David.”

It was absolutely silent. Except it wasn’t because the theme music from the movie  Fargo was playing in a loop at full blast on the television.

My Grampa Pete and I watched movies together. Shoot ’em ups were our favorites. When I was a little kid, I loved sleeping over at Gramma and Grampa’s because Gramma would buy me a box of Lucky Charms and the three of us would sit in front of the television and watch the Death Wish and Lethal Weapon films, most movies starring Chuck Norris and anything with John Wayne in it.

When I was thirteen, they moved from Chicago to Mountain View, Arkansas onto a gorgeous chunk of land tucked in among the vast Ozarks, woods and creeks. Grampa had quickly amassed a sizable and eclectic collection of guns and other weapons like knives and one crossbow. He took up hunting because that’s what you do when you retire to the Arkansas hills.

When I visited them in the mountains, most often around Christmas, Grampa and I would go hunting. Squirrel, mostly. It had the longest season and was the easiest thing for me get away with killing and not having a license to do so. Hunting licenses were expensive and Grampa didn’t see the sense in paying all that money for just the few days I’d be down there. So squirrel it was. And I was fine with that. He showed me how to recognize a good kill—”Look at them underneath, see the size of his nuts? That’s a good one.”—and how to clean and prep the kill for dinner, which Gramma would prepare by frying them. Yes, just like chicken.

But mostly, Grampa and I laid up on our visits. He’d be in his big recliner that served as the helm of the house with his side table hosting various remote controls, small tools and pencils, sketches of construction projects he was working on, tattered pocket maps, a large cup of coffee, a bowl filled with small Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, a bulk package of multi-colored Bic lighters and an ashtray for his non-filtered Chesterfield Kings. I’d be on the other side of the living room spread across the couch with a bowl of Lucky Charms on my chest. And we’d watch television. Lots of History Channel and Walker Texas Ranger and any of those true crime, who dunnit mystery shows.

David Himmel, Gramma and Grampa PeteGrampa and I were close. And it was a special kind of close because we weren’t blood. Pete was my grandmother’s second husband. They got hitched right before I was born. But from the start we liked each other. My first real words were asking Gramma, “Where’s Pete?” And she would tell me, “Pete’s at work.”

So when he got sick and they were unable to make the drive up to Chicago for Christmas, I flew down there to spend it with them. And when he got real sick, in the end, when he was no longer moving around and had lost all that muscle and mass that made him look like the most terrifying man on the planet, and the rented hospital bed was wheeled into the living room, positioned so he could watch television, Gramma called me.

“You need to come down here. And bring your black suit.”

I got on the earliest flight to Little Rock from Chicago. It was a Thursday. I was later told that Grampa, doing his best to be lucid and alive asked Gramma, “Where’s David?” And she told him, “He just landed. He’ll be here soon.”

Those were his last words. So similar to my first.

I got to the house and I talked with him. I guess he listened—I don’t know what happens to a person when the body starts to pack up. I sat with him all Thursday afternoon and into the night watching television. It was on MSNBC because in those last few days, that was all he had wanted to watch. I didn’t dare change it just in case he did have enough life left in him to make a fuss.

By the next morning, though, I couldn’t stand it anymore. One more promo for Rachel Maddow or Al Sharpton was going to drive me to smother my grandfather with a pillow just to end the constant parade of moronic bile that spewed from the mouths of those so-called television news journalists. I suggested that we watch a movie instead.

“What do you think, Grampa? What are you in the mood for?” I sorted through their vast collection of movies, mostly shoot ’em ups. There was a John Wayne box set, which I had bought him for Christmas a few years back. “How about The Duke?” He didn’t answer me, but as I was about to take one of the DVDs out, another film caught my eye.

“Oh, what about Fargo? I haven’t seen this one in a while.” Fargo Film Poster

Out of the DVD case and into the DVD player. I cranked up the volume because that had been how he’d preferred watching anything the last month or so. “Loud as hell,” Gramma called it. The menu came on. There’s the footage of someone being dragged through the snow—I think that’s what it is—and the theme music that plays for maybe thirty seconds then loops back to the beginning.

Before I could hit play and get comfortable, Grampa began to squirm. I knew what was happening. I’d seen this before. His body was packing up and he was, too. He tugged at his breathing tubes. I helped him get them out and off from around his head. He pushed out his dentures, which made me laugh and frightened me at once. He relaxed and began breathing calmly, steadily. He hadn’t done that since I arrived the day before. I called Gramma into the room.

And we took his hands. And he took that last breath. And the Fargo music blared through the house and down the bluff and probably across the entire mountain range.

Gramma said, “I think he’s gone, David.”

I knew he was but I didn’t want to be the one to say it. I put my head to my grandfather’s chest. If you’ve never listened to the chest of a dead man, try it sometime. It’s like putting your ear to a conch and hearing the ocean, but where you expect to hear a heartbeat lungs moving you get the emptiest quiet you’ll ever hear.

I lifted my head and looked at Gramma. I gently nodded, professionally as if I were a coroner making a confirmation. And we stood there with that Fargo DVD menu screen playing its menu screen music over and over and over.

The way Grampa died was sweet. I suppose he had waited until I got down there to be with him and to make sure that I’d take care of things and Gramma after he’d gone. I assume this with confidence because of his last words. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was perfect.

Except for that goddamn Fargo music.

When Gramma eventually left the bedside, I stayed, still holding his hand. I might have cried a little but I’m sure that I kissed him on the forehead and told the husk of his body, “I love you.” And then I squeezed his hand and said, “If you didn’t want to watch Fargo, you should have just said something.”

I watch Fargo the television series every week. I loved the first season and I am enjoying this season equally as much, maybe more so. And each time it’s on, I think of Grampa Pete. And each time it’s over, I call both of my grandmothers just to be sure that my wanting to watch Fargo didn’t kill them, too.

Mondo Meatball: Serving a Few People in 2015 — The Pathetic Death of a Sad Local Eatery

Mondo Meatball 2015

Back in January of this year, I was walking along Milwaukee Avenue in Wicker Park through the wretched gray cold for some reason. I passed a storefront that used to be the home of a place I preferred for brunch. Generally, I hate going to brunch. I hate the crowds, the unnecessary complications made to simple breakfast dishes and the laborious and pointless so-called thrill—idiots alone would call this thrilling—of making my own bloody Mary. I like my meals, especially my breakfast or brunch meals, simple. Eggs over easy, rye toast, crispy hashbrowns, a whole grapefruit, orange juice, black coffee, strong bloody Marys. I’ve yet to find any brunch place that can make my desired meal any better than I can. If I do eat brunch at a restaurant, it’s to avoid doing the work myself, which is especially why I view making my own bloody Mary and still paying for the annoyance as an exercise in the utmost stupidity. Anyway, I didn’t mind that particular restaurant because the menu was simple, affordable and tasty.


Thing is, I can’t remember the name of the place. Never could. And although I had dined there a fair amount of times, that I was unable to remember the name of my favorite place to have godforsaken brunch in all of Chicago is probably part of why the place failed. It had closed the kitchen and removed its sign only a few months before that horrendous cold day in January when I saw that a new restaurant had taken its place.


It was called Mondo Meatball and I knew without even having to eat there that it wouldn’t last long. It opened in January 2015. Its logo was locked up with a tagline that read, “Serving the world since 2015.” I don’t know the history of these meatballs but I have a hard time believing that when I first read that sign during the first half of the first month of its first year of operation, that the world had been served Mondo Meatballs. I don’t believe that any majority of Wicker Park had been served a Mondo Meatball by then. But there it was: Foodie bravado for the sake of grandiosity.

And while I often enjoy watching the blowhards drenched in marketing spin and trend-worthy buzzwords fall on their assess, I felt a little bad when I read the letter posted in the window that “Mondo Meatball has closed its doors” and that they “took pride in the food, the good vibes and taking care of our guests… especially our regulars. We regret that we cannot continue to do that.”


The letter was dated August 11, 2015. That’s about eight months to the day from when they opened. When looking at the logo and considering the date on the letter, it just makes things seem sad, silly and pathetic.


I hate to see dreams deferred. Really, I do. Especially when it happens to good, well-intentioned people. I never met the Mondo Meatball folks. Never ate there. But from the sincerity in that letter and the silly hype in the logo, I concluded that they meant well. I think they genuinely wanted to serve the world their meatballs kind of the same way Coca-Cola wanted to make the world smile. The difference is that when Coke took on that charge, it was already Coke. Mondo Meatball was a little leaguer swinging for the fences and it struck out. Pitifully.

Mondo Meatball Letter

This is why you shouldn’t make outrageous claims about your abilities (“Serving the world”), and certainly why every business must be around for at least 15 years before it gets to add an “established in…” or “since…” to its imagery.


Mondo Meatball never fooled anyone into thinking it was a staple of Chicago or world dining. It never even had the chance.

Oh My God! Jimmy Carter is Jesus Christ!

 “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.” – Jesus Christ


“Anyone can be successful in life… This is not based on measuring success by human competitiveness for wealth, possessions, influence, and fame, but adhering to God’s standards of truth, justice, humility, service, compassion, forgiveness, and love.” – Jimmy Carter


Jimmy CarterJesus Christ Wave

I don’t remember Jimmy Carter, President of the United States. I was too young and interested only in baby food and breast milk by the time he left office. But I am a student of history and upon reading a minimal amount about Carter’s life and times, and after watching an episode of CNN’s original series The Seventies, I am convinced that Jimmy Carter is Jesus Christ.


The episode that spawned this realization was “The State of the Union is not Good.” It discusses how America went from one crisis to another in every possible way during the (Gerald) Ford and Carter presidencies. You see, Ford came into office during terrible domestic times. Things were shaky internationally as well. The bumbling career politician doggy paddled his way through three years of a second term left vacant by Richard Nixon before a mostly unknown man arrived on the national scene.


He was kind, soft spoken, came from humble beginnings. He was religious and considerate of those who were in need—the American people. Carter won the presidency over Ford because we wanted an outsider. We wanted someone who was good. And so we elected a peanut farmer to be our leader. And his presidency was the second coming.


And like Christ’s time spent preaching and trying to convert the wicked to ways of caring, Carter’s time in the White House was short lived. He came. He preached. He wanted us to give up our possessions, or at the very least, not put so much importance on all of our stuff. He asked us to make sacrifices for the greater good. Carter’s message was the right one, just like Christ’s. And perhaps, just when we needed them both most, they were publicly and viciously crucified by Ronald Reagan. And like Christ’s influence became stronger after his life on earth, so did Carter’s influence become stronger after his time in the Oval Office.


Carter himself said, “I can’t deny I’m a better ex-president than I was a president.” Similarly, Christ himself said, “I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore. Amen. And I have the keys of Hades and of Death.” Better now than before.


I know unwavering conservatives hate Carter and will certainly disagree with this realization but here’s the thing: Carter, a democrat, created the modern republican. He embraced the Iowa caucus and prayed in public. And isn’t it just like the conservative to disapprove of the liberal? Did the powerful and conservative Romans and Jews not disapprove of Christ?


Christ rose to heaven. Carter is married to a woman named Rosalyn, which means rose. What’s more is that both men had trouble in the Middle East. Carter with the Iran hostage situation and Christ with the being beaten and tortured situation. And if you need any further proof that Jimmy Carter is in fact the second coming of Jesus Christ, consider this: They both share the initials J.C.

Welcome to Chicago! You’ll Convince Yourself You Love It

As my friend Brian Beardmore prepares to move to Chicago this weekend, I feel it necessary to let him in on some of the city’s secrets and tricks. True Chicagoans hold these dear as a matter of pride and survival. (This is a list. I hope BuzzFeed doesn’t sue me for writing a list without its permission.) Understanding this knowledge is what defines every Chicagoan as a true Chicagoan.Skyline

• Rich people root for the Cubs. You, Brian, will root for the White Sox.

• Never, never, never, put ketchup on your pizza.

• A hot dog is best served in a deep dish.

• Registered republican voters are to Chicago what homosexuals are to Indiana.

• Mayor Rahm Emanuel lost his finger when Chicago Teachers Union President Karen Lewis bit it off.

• Most of us have no idea what the Chicago flag represents.

• Call the Willis Tower the Willis Tower. It’s no longer the Sears Tower. It hasn’t been for years. Get over it. Those who are unable to get past this are clearly living with a mental disorder that prevents them from accepting change. That, or they’re extremely immature. Too immature to operate a vehicle and should, therefore, not be allowed to drive. If they are a parent, their children should be taken away because this type of thinking will only lead to irrational and irresponsible teachings, therefore, endangering the child(ren). Not able to accept that a building is called the Willis Tower is the same as not accepting that vaccines and other scientific advancements can help the global healthcare system.

• Macy’s on State Street is, and always will be, Marshall Field’s, goddammit.

• The CTA Red Line is for public masturbators and yuppies. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.

• If you read the RedEye with any routine frequency, you will be dumber than you were before you moved here.

• Fort Dearborn was made of pillows and blankets.


• Malort isn’t delicious. But it’s not as bad as people say it is.

• Rats.

• Avoid dating anyone who lives in a high rise. It makes the eventual breakup that much worse when you have to wait for the elevator.

• When you drink in Wrigleyville, you will always have a good time. But you will always regret it and be embarrassed by it.

• North Avenue Beach is a great place to spend time with friends during the summer.

• The bathrooms at the Castaways Bar & Grill at North Avenue Beach is a great place to discover a new strand of the AIDS virus.

• Living with Chicago weather is like living with a bipolar person: You know that things are going to get really terrible, you’re just never quite sure when.

• The parking, the traffic, the politics, the schools, the sports teams (Blackhawks excluded and sometimes the Bulls), the weather, the cops, the bartenders in aprons and beards all suck. Despite this, you will convince yourself, just like the rest of us have, that Chicago is the greatest city on the planet. And like the rest of us, you’ll kick and scream about it every time anyone mentions New York, Los Angeles or Lincoln, Nebraska.

The Harassment of Witnessing a Stereotype

This is true:

Dude on the Orange Line from Midway Airport walks across the car with his hand pulling at the sagging crotch of his sagging trousers. He sits across the aisle from a young woman wearing her earbuds.

“Where you from?” he asks.

“Chicago,” she responds, unengaged.

“Me too. What part?”

“The city part.”

“I know that. But what part?”

She doesn’t say anything. Just gives a small grin and goes back to looking out of the window.

“You don’t want to have a conversation?” he says.

“I don’t want to talk right now.”

“Why not? Come on.”

“I don’t want to talk right now,” she says again, nicely but more steadfast this time.

“Am I ugly or something?”

She doesn’t respond.

He sits there for moments looking at her. She gives him nothing in return.

“Psshht,” he says as he stands and walks back to the seat he was in before she boarded and sits down commandingly. He pulls a bottle of Olde English malt liquor from his bag. It cracks and hisses as he twists the top off. He takes a pull of it, returns the cap to the bottle and the bottle to the bag. Then a pack of Newport cigarettes. He places a cigarette in his mouth and continues to command too much space for the woman sitting next to him. He is trying his best to not look beaten. His best isn’t good enough. He is defeated.

It could have been far worse. It could have been uglier. Thankfully not this time. But maybe next.

And he is a stereotype worth every ounce of our fears and hatred. And unfortunately, our disappointment in the knowledge that sometimes stereotypes are a terrible truth. He is but one stereotype that can poison the well that quenches the thirst of the narrow minded—the too often masses. It would be easy to make this stereotype, this young man so full of outward bravado and inner loathing the bad guy. To put him in the wrong. Somehow, however, it seems that everyone and everything in this situation is wrong.

CSUN Senators are Not Doing Their Job

Within eight days, three CSUN senators have resigned. RJ Peltyn resigned to become a rock star, James Altman is going to write the next Great American Novel and Suzy Roberts resigned because of poor time management.

It must be hard to balance classes, work and going to a meeting once a week. And if you make a wrong turn, maybe, just maybe, you’ll serve your required office hours.

Senate President Steph Davy had to scold the senators two weeks ago because they didn’t do anything a student senator is supposed to do. Yet this week, Davy put a time limit on what the senators felt was an important issue involving the election rules for the executive board. The senators were so bewildered by this short discussion that at one point they voted away all election rules.

Senator Marissa Geffen (Urban Affairs) asked me why UNLV Rebel Yell reporter Thomas Carrow laughs during the senate meetings. I told her that Tom has trouble understanding stupid people.

But they’re not all stupid. It could be that they’re tired by the time the 6 p.m. senate meeting is called to order on Mondays. They do have to study and work. We know none of them are at the CSUN sponsored events. Davy has even begged senators to go to something, even if it is Altman’s book signing.

CSUN has done a fine job of hiding their faults. Part of that could be because there are only two CSUN justices as opposed to the required seven. How can we check and balance if no one is there to check? That’s where I come in.

Student Body President Paul Moradkhan is wasting meeting time reminding the senators and directors to not leave the keys to the CSUN golf cart at home. That’s not where they belong.

Not everyone is an abuser of your money. Senators Geffen, Samra Dayani (Urban Affairs), Jaime Homampour (Liberal Arts), Sarah Bowers (Business) and David Fauske (Hotel) are always discussing the items on the agenda and putting actual thought into the ultimate decisions.

“It all started with meat,” Dustin Williams, Hotel senator said in Monday’s meeting about why technology was important. Although it was a clever attempt at reason, I don’t see how it has to do with anything. And neither should you.

Granted, any wannabe senator like Ed Bernstein could do this job, but, even then, some thought has to go into it. A job is a job and a job not done properly is a job you should not have. The senate controls $800,000 each year. Maybe with their $50 per meeting 12-credit waiver, the senators should also get a work ethic stipend.

Upon resigning, Altman said he came in with big expectations but was sincerely let down. Altman didn’t even accept a paycheck because he doesn’t feel public offices should be paid positions. And certainly, nobody should get paid for bickering.

You know, being a senator is a lot like meat.

Go Rebels!

Originally published February 8, 2001 in the UNLV Rebel Yell.

Deflate Your Ego, We’re All Blessed

With Hanukkah beginning tonight on the eve of Thanksgiving, I implore you, my fine friends, to resist the urge to brag about how blessed you are this holiday.

God-loves-meBy saying that you’re blessed because of your great family and safe travels and wonderful friends and delicious food, you’re stating an obvious point that only aggrandizes you and subsequently makes you seem just a little shallow and entirely self-absorbed.

Because if you truly feel that you are blessed, that means you believe that God is active in your life. And if that’s the case, you probably also believe that God loves everyone. And if you believe that, then you must believe that everyone is blessed. So, when you say you’re blessed, you might as well be saying, “I have skin.” Because everyone has skin. And those who don’t, such as burn victims, might then feel that they’re less blessed and that God doesn’t love them. And then you’d be responsible for someone’s crisis of faith. You don’t want that on your conscience.

OK, maybe it’s a stretch and what does this have to do with Hanukkah? Glad you asked… You see, the biggest problem I have with the Jewish faith, is the notion that the Jews are the Chosen People. Saying something like that diminishes all the other people in the world. Being chosen or blessed is something we all are, lest you think you deserve better treatment from a God who has favorites. If you think that, OK. I don’t. And that’s why I had to give back my Bar Mitzvah money.

All I ask is that you be inclusive this Thanksgivingukkahkahkah, or whatever it is we’re calling it. Because if God loves us all, then we’ve all been chosen and we’re all blessed. Well, maybe not all of us. Maybe not those who are stuck out in the cold. Those without family and food. The sick and injured and generally unwell. 

So, if by chance, you feel you’re being overwhelmed by all the blessings bestowed upon you and your family, maybe you can give a few of those blessings to the others.

Me? I think God spares me far more than he blesses me. Really, I hate to think he’s wasting specific blessings on what so many of us already have—a bunch of shit for which to be thankful.


Lady Gaga is So Famous

Let’s all be sure to thank Lady Gaga for being famous so we can adore her for whatever the hell it is she does.


I admit that I can be a bit of a music snob. I’ll listen to anything more than once, but I have high standards.

I don’t like music with lyrics that are too tongue in cheek, which is why I hate Fall Out Boy. I don’t like overly sentimental songs written for the sake of sentimentality, which is why I have a hard time liking The Lumineers. I don’t like musicians who take themselves too seriously, which is why Bon Iver can throw himself off a goddamn bridge.

I like honest songs. Songs that tell stories. Songs with a message. Songs with a driving beat. Songs that don’t try too hard. That’s why I like Simon and Garfunkle and  most 1970s-early 2000s Punk and your basic Rock ‘n Roll and a chunk of that early 90s emo stuff before emo was turned into whatever Dashboard Confessional was crying about.

And I like Pop music. I love the bubble gum of Leslie Gore and Rickey Nelson. The sweetness of New Edition and Debbie Gibson. The fun of Katy Perry and Michael Jackson. And I like Disco, too because that was all about a good time. But I hate Lady Gaga.

She makes Dance-Pop music, so by all accounts I should think she’s boat loads of fun. However, she’s unoriginal—even for Pop music. And she’s more about making the trend on Twitter than putting out anything worth listening to. She knows it, and she knows that we know it. And I would respect her for so blatantly being in on the joke, except I don’t think she’s joking.

I do think, however that with her first album, she had every intention of being simply a screwy pop star. But when she saw the market to become a hashtag and take on gay rights by living in an egg or wearing a meat dress or whatever the fuck that was, she lost me. Lady Gaga is after headlines rather than hits. And meat dresses ain’t never gonna help civil rights.

Her latest single is called Applause. I listened to it. It’s catchy enough. But its theme and lyrical content sounds like they were born from the brain of a needy, middle child teenage girl who nailed her solo at the spring choir concert. This wouldn’t bother me so much except that this song, and the subsequent singles released from her new album, will be played ad nauseum in clubs, at festivals, in bars and on the radio simply because people want her around so she can do something zany. Plus, it gives Eric and Kathy on Chicago’s Mix 101.9 something to talk about in the morning.

But if Lady Gaga really wants to do something zany, something we’d never expect, she should retire. Stop making music, stop making headlines, stop making videos and appearances, and just retire. That would blow us away and would be one of the greatest moments in music history.

Slaving Over the Real Passover

As many people sit down to the seder table tonight to celebrate Passover, we should not forget what the holiday is celebrating.

Moses kills the Egyptian whipmaster while defending a fellow Hebrew. Then he hides the evidence and flees the scene.

Moses kills the Egyptian whipmaster while defending a fellow Hebrew. Then he hides the evidence and flees the scene.

It’s the story of an abandoned baby, a man getting away with murder and the systematic slaughter of a race of children, which culminates in the escape of a worn down group of religious followers as they set out to navigate an unforgiving desert with little food or water in search of a land that was not technically theirs because God is an Indian giver. It’s also the story of the terrors of slavery and oppression. Even though the world did get some pretty fascinating pyramids out of it.

Happy Passover. Be sure to leave some hooch for Elijah. Just don’t tell his sponsor.

New Year, New You… New Headline

Writing isn’t easy. I know, I’ve been doing my best to do at least a mediocre job of it for too long already. The one thing harder than writing stories in any form, is writing headlines. Trying to convey a complete summation in only a few words is tricky. But that’s no excuse to be lazy.

I am often saddened by the diploma hanging on my wall that proves I earned a bachelor’s degree in journalism. Not because it’s taken me 10 years to earn what it cost me to go to school for four, and not because I earned that degree from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, or UNLV—where the ‘N’ stands for knowledge. I am often saddened by my degree in journalism because journalism is a joke.

It wasn’t always this way. But it is now. Journalism is lazy. Because beyond the Murdoch Monopolies and the mail-it-in partisan op ed pages of nearly every remaining news paper in the nation, and the echolalia made by the cable news channel pundits and hosts, and the trite interest in cupcake shops and bacon infused whatevers found in alleged alternative magazines, and the increasing number Associated Press bylines in so-called major newspapers—online and otherwise—every January, far too many news outlets use the headline, “New Year, New You.”

There’s this one. And this one. And this one. And this one. And this one. And this one. And there’s also this one. And this one. And this one. And this one.

And that’s a short list. And there are major news outlets in that list. Big ones. The ones with the money. The ones that can afford the best writers and editors to create new ways of saying the same thing. Because, yeah, January reaffirms in all of us the desire to renew the way we live our lives. From the way we eat to the way we shit, read and screw. So, yeah, it’s topical. But it is our job as the creatives, as the media, to develop innovation. If we cannot do that, we fail.

I am the managing editor of a health magazine. Do you know how easy it would be for me to publish a story with the headline, “New Year, New You?” But I haven’t, and I won’t. Because I want my magazine to be better than that. Sure, sure… I could publish a story like that and the Google gods will direct the Internet nomads to my site because of my SEO savvy. But that’s not the reader I want. Let those readers go somewhere else to get their fix of vanilla. I want to be better than that. I don’t want to get lost in the fray of assimilation and boredom. I already have an iPhone just like you. Enough is enough.

Yes. Journalism is lazy. And it breaks my heart. Then today, the day that Marty McFly goes back to the future with Doc and Jennifer to save his kids, I saw this piece from New York Magazine that points out the hack journalism from the once beloved Hill Valley Telegraph. I don’t know how I didn’t catch this schizophrenic editing before. Maybe I’m too lazy…

So how about this… Since it’s a new year, and everyone is pushing for a new you, why don’t we try for a new headline. It’s a start anyway.