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Business time

hyattDon’t ask me what’s up with this blog.  Instead, read a story that I arguably should have written two years ago.

I’m at the Hyatt Hotel in Buckhead. It’s the toney spot where the local Emmys take place every year, last I heard.  The year is 2016. It’s election night.

I’m assigned to cover the Donald Trump victory party in Georgia.

Of course, at that particular moment in time, few thought Trump would win.  (I’m an exception; the weekend before that election, I shocked friends by predicting a Trump victory.  My prediction was based on poll trajectories that showed Trump gaining enough during the last week of the campaign to achieve a statistical tie with Clinton. I also thought Trump’s late “drain the swamp” messaging was brilliant. That final weekend, the news media overwhelmingly maintained a “no way can Trump win” storyline despite that statistical shift.)

Anyway.  I’m among Georgia Republicans, a well-heeled group mostly. The mood is festive yet somewhat fatalistic.  They, too, largely assume Trump will lose, yet seem buoyed by the idea of regaining control of the Republican party post-Trump.

Early in the evening, I see an aide to Sen. David Perdue.  I had established an easy rapport with Perdue covering his 2014 election, but hadn’t seen much of him since. I’m told Perdue is arriving momentarily.

The front door to the hotel is nearby. There’s little to do, so I go to it and wait.  My photog is in the ballroom downstairs. I have no gear except my iPhone.

A woman appears nearby.  I hear her say something softly, but I’m facing away from her. After a moment, I realize she’s talking to me.  She’s barely in her twenties, if that.  She’s lovely, dark-skinned, wearing a white faux fur overcoat.

“Were you talking to me?” I ask her.

“Are you here alone?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

I undoubtedly gave her a quizzical look, then answered honestly.  At that moment, I was solo.  I said yes.

She whispers again.  “Want some company?”

No doubt, my quizzical look returned, followed by the proverbial light bulb going off over my head.  After allowing a moment of self-indulgent flattery, I realized hers was strictly a business proposition.  I was wearing one of my better suits. We were in a nice hotel. I may have looked something like money.

I stammered politely, declining the offer, then turned back toward the entrance.  Feeling a bit sorry for the young woman, I turned back to initiate smalltalk and perhaps learn more about her circumstances.

She had disappeared.

Perdue walked in two minutes later.  We greeted each other, and headed to the ballroom where a long and memorable night was slowly getting underway.

I didn’t write about it two years because the scourge of human trafficking is real. And I didn’t want to imply that this was somehow linked to the politics of the evening.

It’s certainly not typical of my business.  I’ve interviewed people in the sex trade before, and have had occasional klunky encounters with women (and men) soliciting while out in the world.  But I had never experienced this type of commercial inquiry while on the job, nor since.

I’m writing about it now because – well, a friend of mine posted something similar on Facebook. I started to comment on it, and decided to write this instead. It’s a weird story.  This blog was overdue for a new post.  Here it is.  Now you know.

Happy 2019.

Too young

“What’s it like getting old?”

My grown daughter, Leigh, had framed the question more artfully and meant it sincerely.  It was about 1am, a late-night chat in my kitchen.  Leigh was making a rare visit from her new-ish home on the west coast.

The question was legit. In the previous year, I had become the patient of a cardiologist.  A condition called atrial fibrillation had struck me in July, causing my heart to beat irregularly.  The biggest danger of “afib” is stroke. (In November, I had a procedure that appears to have fixed the heartbeat – fingers crossed.)

Around the time Leigh asked me that question, I saw an alert on my phone announcing the untimely death of my former coworker, Amanda Davis.

Amanda Davis. Photo by Eddie Cortes

Davis was 62 according to the AJC, a mere three years my senior.  The AJC said she’d suffered “a massive stroke.”

I answered Leigh by saying that, apart from the irregular heartbeat and the fatigue afib had created, I feel like I’m the same person who inhabited this body thirty years ago.

Three decades ago, I was a fresh hire at WAGA-TV.  Amanda Davis was the news anchor / reporter hired a few weeks after me.  I remember our news director, Jack Frazier, talking her up after we’d watched her do a live shot at Grady Hospital on our noon newscast on (what I remember as) her first day at work.  She was a lot of things I wasn’t — confident on the air, fluid and natural, and easy on the eyes.  She was hitting her stride as a smart and appealing big-city TV news pro.   Frazier had hired her away from WSB-TV.  He looked very, very pleased with himself.

Amanda was barely thirty years old.

She would go on to become the on-air face of WAGA’s new morning newscast, Good Day Atlanta, then succeed Brenda Wood as the station’s evening news anchor.

Amanda and Doug circa 1997

Sweet and professional but rather guarded personally, my encounters with Amanda at work were upbeat and often humorous, but mostly fleeting.  My longest conversations with her were prior to my appearances alongside her in the studio, where I would deliver stories on the evening news.  My favorite memory of her was when she showed up at a 2003 party my wife threw at our home after photog Eddie Cortes and I returned from a stint covering the invasion of Iraq.  My starstruck mother- and father-in-law had collared her in the kitchen, and Amanda graciously lingered with them to chat.

Unlike the hostess’ husband, Amanda retained her sobriety that night.  Her drinking “problem” was news to me when her DUI arrests became public.

The last time we spoke was after Amanda’s forced departure from WAGA.  She showed up in the press room of the Georgia House of Representatives on the first day of the legislative session.  She was seated, alone, in the room overlooking the House chamber, where a friend of hers was being sworn in as a member.  I walked in.  We embraced.  I asked her how she was doing.  She said she was OK. The hurt look on her face said otherwise. As we parted company, I felt terrible for her.

I give WGCL a lot of credit for hiring her, then sticking with her following another DUI arrest a few weeks after her hiring.  I don’t know how the struggles of the famous impact those experiencing similar issues.  I want to believe that Amanda Davis’ public effort to purge alcohol from her life inspired at least a few people to do the same thing.  If so, perhaps WGCL saved some people some heartache by putting her back on TV.

No doubt, WGCL had plenty of applications from smart and attractive thirty year olds willing to do the same job for a fraction of the salary Amanda hopefully commanded in her sixties.

She was on a roll, hitting her stride yet again as a smart, appealing and experienced big-city TV news pro.

Getting old ain’t so bad.  Amanda Davis should have gotten a chance to enjoy it longer.



The early exit, and the “ambush”

I have spent years refraining from getting into public spats with the publicists of politicians and government entities.  They can be extraordinarily petty, unhelpful, deceptive or just useless.  A few aren’t. They are professional and even-tempered, even under trying circumstances.  I don’t bash the bad ones because I have a naive hope they can flip into joining the ranks of the good ones.

So I have hope for Nadgey Louis-Charles, the publicist for US Rep. Jody Hice (R-Georgia).  According to her Facebook page, she’s a 2014 grad of the University of Georgia. Perhaps her experience with me last week will add something useful to her experience in a job I know can be challenging.

Friday, Nadgey Louis-Charles wrote a piece attacking me and a story I produced Thursday.  She posted it to Hice’s Facebook page late Friday.  (Find it here.) She helpfully tagged me, so I saw it more-or-less immediately.

I wrote a quick response on Hice’s page, but am moved to tell the full story here.  It’s a cautionary tale of dealing with the hyper-sensitive youngsters who surround Members of Congress, who are apparently schooled to “push back” whenever words appear in news stories that may be out of sync with the press releases they send out with deadening regularity.

A producer in our newsroom, Ric Garni, had been researching the public activities of Members of Congress during their recent recess.  Such open-to-the-public events are few and far between, although the press secretaries of congressmen will insist that they meet with the public all the time — just not in public settings.

Such public settings can expose GOP congressmen to a room full of left-leaning folks angry about President Trump and the repeal of Obamacare.

Ric spotted a bona-fide public appearance  on the website of Rep. Hice.  It was in Warren County, not quite two hours east of Atlanta.  It wasn’t a “town hall.” It was billed as “coffee and conversation” with Rep. Hice, with an emphasis on health care and Alzheimer’s.

hice invite

Screen grab from Rep. Hice’s website

The site indicated it was open to the public and that “registration is not required.” We decided the night before to check it out and observe his interactions with the public. Hice had voted the previous week to replace Obamacare with a Republican substitute. Though Warren County had voted solidly for Hillary Clinton in November, we’d had no inkling any troublemakers had planned to attend.

After I posted my story about the event online, I got a voice mail and text from Nadgey Louis-Charles.

She wasn’t at the Warrenton event, but two other Hice staffers were there in addition to the Congressman.  They seemed surprised to see me. Because the event was open to the public, I’d made no pre-arrangements.

In the voicemail, Louis-Charles said she wanted to discuss “the headline you ran and the story which was completely deceptive and false.” She went on the describe my interaction with Hice as “kind of an ambush.”

Here’s what actually happened.


Rep. Jody Hice works a room, wears our mic

Upon arrival, I had spotted Hice working a cafeteria-sized room at a place described as a senior center.  I approached sans camera — photog Dan Reilly was still in the parking lot  — and I said hello.  Hice, who I first interviewed in 2012, has always been agreeable and pleasant. I asked him if I could chat with him on camera after the event.  He said yes, of course.

I also asked him if he would wear a lapel mic during his remarks to the room.  He agreed.

That was the “ambush.”  (I’m not above “ambushing” reluctant newsmakers in public settings. But it didn’t happen here.)

Hice had spoken with folks individually before the program started.  Using a PA system, a staffer introduced Hice.  Hice spoke for a few minutes about Alzheimer’s, which had killed his mother 18 months prior (and my dad more than a decade ago).  He spoke briefly about the health care bill the House passed.  He took no questions, and passed the mic to a woman with the Alzheimers Association.

Hice had told me he would be hurrying to another event afterward. I’d promised to keep my post-event questioning brief.

Warrenton is a town that has seen better days. Except for the Warren County Courthouse and a restaurant across the street, most of its downtown buildings appear to be vacant. Attendees seemed mostly flattered to have the attention of their local congressman, and treated him gently.  There were about fifty people in the room. Most of them were elderly.

Hice sat and listened.  As the woman with the Alzheimers Association spoke, a staffer approached him. I watched them exit a side door into another room. I assumed he was coming back. The program was ten minutes away from the conclusion time posted on his web site.

As he stayed gone, I walked toward the main exit.  I spotted Hice and a staffer outside.  He stopped for the agreed-upon interview.  While Reilly set up, a woman poked her head out the door. “You’re not going to take any questions?” she asked. She was slightly incredulous but not angry. It was a moment we did not record on camera. Hice answered by saying it wasn’t “that kind of an event.”  The disappointed woman, who had driven there from Athens, walked back into the building, and Hice answered my questions in an interview.

After Hice had driven out of the parking lot, I looked at the time again. It was 11:30.

As Reilly drove us back toward Atlanta, I wrote the TV piece that would air at 5. The headline and story mentioned Hice’s early departure. The story also mentioned that his reception was mostly friendly, and explained that his departure was due to another event on his schedule.  It included a quote from the Athens woman, who said she “just wanted to have a civil discussion” about the health care bill.

After she left the voicemail that night, I returned Louis-Charles’s call.  She ranted about the “ambush” of Hice, which I shut down pretty quickly.  Then she complained that the headline and mention about Hice’s early exit falsified and / or distorted what actually happened.

I told her it didn’t. Thankfully, our chat was brief.

Her post appeared the following day, starting with “#fakenewsalert” and a cute reference to my employer as “11 A Lie News.” Once again, she didn’t dispute any actual facts in my piece.

I linked to it. As of Sunday, my reply within his post had 55 comments.  (Social media is the death of blogs.)

Louis-Charles was perfectly within her right to question the facts I put in the story.  She’s within her rights to gripe that I emphasized elements of the event that she wouldn’t have emphasized when writing a press release. She can even say I distorted the importance of his early departure. I disagree. It’s unquestionably part of what made the story interesting.

And she can even make it public. Given that the story was pretty evenhanded, it doesn’t take much to make a congressional publicist go off the rails.

I wouldn’t have done it.  But I’m also grateful I’m not a publicist for a congressman.

One lousy word

I can’t remember ever using the n-word in text or conversation with a newsmaker.  But more times than I can count, I’ve done what my colleague Valerie Hoff did earlier this month. Unfortunately, Valerie tiptoed across a line of acceptable language, and it cost her the job she’d had at WXIA for 18 years.


Valerie Hoff

Valerie was trying to make contact with a man who’d shot a newsworthy video that had gone viral.  The man had a Twitter handle, and Valerie private messaged him. It was a competitive situation — other news organizations were trying to do the same thing — and Valerie didn’t want to see it anywhere else before she had it.

The African American man had tweeted something about “news n—-z” trying to reach him.  Valerie, a white woman, tried to humorously use the same language in an effort to pitch an interview.  Instead of finding it funny, the man chose to re-tweet and further racialize her text.  Valerie resigned Friday.

Valerie is easy to underestimate: blonde, fit, well-dressed and disarming, it’s a facade concealing a tenacious competitor.  When I worked at WAGA, Valerie was the 11Alive field reporter I feared most. I still smart from the bruising she gave me on the “mansion madame” story in the mid aughts. When I competed with her on a story, I knew I had to be very thorough or I’d end up hearing about a story element she had that I lacked.

When I started work at WXIA in 2009, she was assigned to a franchise called “Ways to Save,” and was anchoring weekends. It sounds like a dream assignment for a reporter coasting toward retirement; yet she worked her tail off producing fresh consumer material that seemed to air seven days a week.  When that gig ended, as all such gigs seem to do, she re-engaged general assignment reporting with her old fervor.  Her stories were often weeks ahead of our competitors. She was a mainstay in the A-block of our newscasts.  And she did it while undergoing a public struggle with breast cancer.

Every reporter tries to find ways to get a potential newsmaker to play ball. If the newsmaker is a civilian new to our world, then the reporter wants to seem likable and trustworthy.  Your competitors are doing the same thing.

Valerie did that better than most of the rest of us.  Knowing her 18 years, I’m absolutely sure there’s not a racially insensitive bone in her body.  I know she regrets using the language in that particular pitch. It turns out quoting back somebody else’s use of a variation of the n-word is perilous territory.

I frequently attempt to use humor or empathy to pitch interviews with perfect strangers under such circumstances.  I also try to be mindful, especially in written messages, that such stuff can surface publicly.  Sometimes I hit “send” too quickly, because typically, time’s a-wastin’. There’s a deadline a few hours away, and there’s a competitor or three breathing down my neck.

So far, it’s never come back to haunt me.


“Indistinguishable,” thy name is two old white guys.

In the news business — one dominated by youthful folk with hair abundant and appealingly tinted — old white guys populate the space reserved for colorless throwbacks.  It’s a space I know well.

Ergo, there’s a certain amount of confusion.  I am constantly called “Richard” or “Dale” or “Clark” or any number of names not mine, but belonging to other old white guys in the Atlanta TV market.

elliott, richards

Richard Elliott is the gent on the left

Yet the proverbial light bulb finally went off over my head when I saw the above photo of myself and Richard Elliot, a reporter at WSB-TV.  The bulb light blinked a message:  No wonder they’re confused!

Mr. Elliott and I covered the legislative session this year.  I’d plotted the photo after a moment of misunderstanding early in the proceedings.

One morning, I’d cornered Rep. Betty Price in the House anteroom and asked her for an interview.  Rep. Price is the wife of Tom Price, the new Secretary of Health and Human Services.  He’d resigned from Congress.  His 6th district seat was up for grabs in a special election.  Rumor was that Betty Price was among those considering a run for the seat.

Rep. Price politely yet firmly declined my interview request, then did a double take and asked:  Didn’t we already have this conversation?  No ma’am, I assured her.  I stalked off to the press room, where I spotted Mr. Elliott.

Did you ask Betty Price for an interview this morning?  I asked him, adding that I had just done so.  I sure did, Mr. Elliott answered.  Just a few minutes ago. She turned me down, too.

Thus began a 40-day joke (Georgia’s legislature meets for 40 days) about mistaken identity.

Mr. Elliott is one of the hardest working general assignment reporters in the Atlanta market, seemingly WSB’s go-to on everything from mayhem to natural disasters to jurisprudence.  When Lori Geary, WSB’s longtime political reporter, was absent in previous years, the station sent Mr. Elliott.  When she fled WSB to start her own business in December 2016, he replaced her at the Capitol. lori

Had the blonde coiffed Ms. Geary stayed, there might have ensued another type of confusion altogether.  This year, WGCL regularly sent Atlanta newcomer Giovanna Drpic to cover the legislature.  She joined WAGA’s Claire Sims, who made Capitol appearances on those special occasions when she had successfully sweet-talked the station out of assigning her to stories about mistreated house pets or disrespectful treatment of Old Glory.

In fact, when I got Ms Drpic and Ms Sims to pose for the below photo, the former — speaking of Mr. Elliott and me — whispered Yes! I thought it was strange how similar you two looked.


Giovanna Drpic WGCL and Claire Sims, WAGA

I’m quite sure Mr. Elliott, who also happens to be the nicest guy in the whole friggin’ world, is a decade or so younger than me.  He has always told me that I look like his father.

So there’s that.

Defining “news”

“Why is this news?”

That’s always a reasonable question. Answering it isn’t always easy.

In this instance, the questioner was Steven Maples, attorney for Tex McIver.  We were outside the Fulton County jail just before Christmas.  McIver, charged with felony involuntary manslaughter in the shooting death of his wife Diane, was about to post bond and exit the jail.  A gaggle of photographers was waiting, plus one reporter.


Tex McIver (left) exits the Fulton County jail with his attorney Steven Maples

I had met Maples earlier in the week. As attorneys go, he seemed humble and humorous.  My presence in his life at that moment might be viewed by many, under similar circumstances, as an affront.  He didn’t.

While waiting for McIver to get out of the lockup and into the lobby, after a few minutes of amiable smalltalk, Maples pointedly posed the question.  

“Why is this news?”

I rarely cover mayhem at WXIA, and I’m grateful for that.  The McIver story was never my cup of tea.  But news folk often get stuck on stories they might not prefer.  As professionals, we have to embrace — and sometimes even defend — such assignments.

The circumstances, and the people involved, make it newsworthy, I answered.

The circumstances raise reasonable questions of Mr. McIver’s intent.  The investigation raises questions of whether Mr. McIver was getting special treatment from the police.

Maples snorted. He also seemed to appreciate an honest answer.

I also felt he deserved a bit of insight into the unscientific decision making of our business.

The truth is, our audience becomes more engaged in stories like this when those involved are — shall we say — people of means.  That was my diplomatic way of saying: When it’s rich folks involved, it’s more sensational.  (I personally avoid the word “sensational” because it’s a term used to undermine the motivations of the news media, though I can’t argue with its accuracy.)

People are idiots, Maples answered in frustration.  If they knew all the details, they would realize this shooting was a terrible tragedy.


Maples amiably allowed me to “ambush” interview him two days earlier

I wasn’t going to argue about the intelligence of our audience.  There’s a lot of hard evidence out there, especially on the internet, that supports his observation.

That led to a confession.

When I first started in this business, folks in newsrooms had to use their judgment and their smarts to decide what was newsworthy,  I told him. Except for Nielsen ratings and circulation data for newspapers, there was no “science.”  Many stories are obvious.  Some are more subjective. We made judgment calls based on our experience and our instincts and our unscientific knowledge of what we thought the audience wanted and needed to know. We still make those judgment calls.

But nowadays, there’s actual science added to the soup: We can measure which stories have traction on the internet.  The internet provides data measuring actual eyeballs, the type of which we used to only imagine. 

Now that we can count those eyeballs, we use that data to help us decide what stories we should follow. The McIver story, I told him, has a measurable following that we cannot ignore.

People are idiots, Maples said again.

Unfortunately, the internet — with all its awesome measurability — is part of a problem that has gradually eroded the credibility of traditional, commercial news media. We have propped up material on social media as newsworthy. Clickbait sites that traffic in unsubstantiated (or “fake”) news have large followings.

People are also unable to discern the difference between news and editorial.  Opinion pieces and pundit commentary gets lumped together with the product of those of us whose job it is to gather and evenhandedly present factual material.  That’s not just an internet problem, but the stew of “news” on the internet rarely lists the ingredients.

As a result, news is becoming messy and a bit ugly  — unless one actually takes a moment to define it.

Mr. Maples asked a question that ought to get asked more often.

The lemon

Here’s what a lemon looks like:  It’s my KitchenAid dual oven gas range, purchased in 2012 for a princely sum.


It was an appealing purchase at the time.  Two ovens are cool and handy.  Gas stoves are easier to control, and evoke my grandmother’s kitchen.

Grandma’s gas range worked great.  Mine doesn’t.

The problem is technology, a blessing and a curse in the 21st century.  When it works great, yay.  When it fails, it is complicated and costly to fix.

My grandmother’s stove didn’t have a motherboard.  Mine does.  Two years ago, it went completely haywire.  Pushing buttons to turn on the oven would instead change the time on the clock.  Adjusting the temperature upward would sometimes shut the whole thing down.

Because it was under warranty, KitchenAid replaced the motherboard.

Last week, it failed again.  This time, the oven won’t heat beyond 170 degrees.

The oven heats, but not enough.  The technology is screwing it up, according to the appliance guy who visited this week.  He offered to install a new motherboard for $450.

KitchenAid is offering to install a new one for $300, with a one year warranty.

At this rate, I’ll be installing new $300 motherboards every two years into a range that is obviously a lemon.  Nice business model, KitchenAid.

Why does a stove / range need a motherboard?   Instead of twisting a knob to activate the oven or set the temperature (grandma’s stove), mine has digital readouts and buttons (that aren’t really buttons) that are embedded next to the readouts.  Its looks very sleek, very 21st century.

When it works, it works great — but not as great as grandma’s did.

In my business, technology has changed a lot in the last twenty years.  We used to edit video on tape machines.  Now we do it in computers, and videotape only exists in archives.  When video machines failed, a guy with a toot belt would open them up and fix them.  When our computers fail, a guy (or two or three) will poke around, scratch their heads and try to decode the problem.  They’ve wiped my computer more times than I can count.  Each time, I lose all the stuff I’ve stored and all the memory that helps me work faster.  (And I can’t count how many failed external hard drives I’ve got in my desk, hoping they’ll reanimate one day.)

I get why TV news technology has advanced.  When it works, it’s lighter and faster and more mobile.

But a kitchen appliance doesn’t need to be mobile or faster or lighter.  The range needs to get hot when I want it to, without the interference of a very flawed KitchenAid computer motherboard that seems completely superfluous to cooking.

I’ve got a KitchenAid guy coming next week to to replace the motherboard — again — for $300.  Maybe I’m behind the times.  But it seems a bit outrageous.

The teammate

For weeks, I’d been asking to interview Brian Kemp.  He’s Georgia’s Secretary of State, the guy who has accepted responsibility — in statements released by his press office — for the leak of the personal data of six million Georgia voters.

The answer — when I’d get an answer at all — was always “no.”

I asked again.  The SOS was about to release an internal investigative report on the leak.  This time, the answer was a modification of no:  We’re already scheduled to talk to one of your colleagues.

Grey haired guys with purple ties

Grey haired guys with purple ties. The guy in the back is winning.

Jon Shirek?  I asked.


Shirek!  The visual could be my contorted face gazing upward, fist shaking.  Shirek! Once again, I’d been bested by a superior reporter.

Instead, I responded with:  “Great!  Thanks.”  Click.

Brian Kemp had already talked to Shirek a week previously — while disregarding my concurrent interview requests.  On Monday November 30, his chief of staff told me Kemp “is not doing any interviews” on the data leak issue.  I urged him to reconsider, darkly suggesting that somebody — not me, necessarily, but an ambitious TV news goon of some stripe — would likely ambush Kemp in a hallway when he least expected it.  A sit-down would be more civilized, I reasoned.

Have fun with that, came the answer.  He didn’t actually say that, but that was what he communicated, loud and clear.

Kemp talks, Shirek wins

Kemp talks, Shirek wins

Two days later, Kemp scheduled an interview with Shirek.  To my knowledge, Shirek’s interviews with Kemp are the only TV chats Kemp has granted on this topic.

And really — who could blame Kemp?

Shirek is perhaps the most admired reporter in our building.  He’s timely, enterprising, legendarily thorough, and one of the two best writers in our shop.  (Fortunately, the other one tends not to request the same interviews I do.)

He’s also much nicer than I am.  In fact, there is no more personable TV reporter in town.  When I competed against Shirek, his was the competitive company I wanted to keep.

Same now.  He actually watches TV.  He stays reasonably aware of what his coworkers are doing.  He heaps praise on them, and me occasionally, when he finds our efforts laudable.

If I was a public official going through a rough patch, I’d call Shirek too.  Especially if yours truly was my other best option.  My MO is awkward politeness, with carefully and respectfully phrased questions that can be a bit uncomfortable.  “You are the world’s worst!” Gov. Nathan Deal once said to me, in an unguarded moment aboard a campaign plane, when talking about reporters trying to get newsmakers to say things they don’t want to say.  He was smiling when he said it. I took it as a compliment.

Shirek is Julio Jones to my Roddy White.  During this year’s NFL season, as Jones eclipsed White, White made believable-yet-not-believable comments to the press about how he didn’t care who catches footballs.  He cared only about the team winning.


So here’s yet another tiresome post praising Jon Shirek.  He’s not exactly kicking my ass, inasmuch as we play for the same team.  But he’s taking care of business that I seem to be unable to handle my ownself.  I only care about the team winning.  I really do.



The officiant

Behind Manuel’s Tavern, there are prime parking spaces reserved for clergy.  I may be able to use one now.

I say so because I officiated a wedding Saturday.  I did so by virtue of my ability to click through an internet site, and find the “get ordained” button, which I clicked.  A page popped up congratulating me on my new status as a minister of an internet church.

The same site also had a state-by-state summary of laws describing whether a person ordained by clicking a button on the internet could legally officiate a wedding.

Behind Manuel's Tavern, Atlanta

Behind Manuel’s Tavern, Atlanta

States have a public safety interest in who can become police officers, lawyers and dental hygienists. There are boards which regulate them.

But it appears most states have virtually nonexistent laws regulating preachers. This is as it should be, of course — just as there is a scarcity of laws regulating journalists.  Both jobs have implied “hands off, big gub’mint” protection in the first amendment of the US Constitution.

Any bozo with a blog and a willingness to use it can legitimately describe him / herself as a journalist. It tends to confuse things, sometimes, when folks want to interact only with news media they view as legitimate or “credentialed.”  Yet it turns out plenty of bloggers are credentialed at Georgia’s state capitol, one of the few places in Atlanta that actually scrutinizes the “legitimacy” of journalists.

But who should decide that I, an internet “clergyman,” isn’t fit to perform a marriage?

Denise, Josiah, their attendants and the "clergyman."

Denise, Josiah, their attendants and the “clergyman.”

The happy couple, that’s who.  And Saturday, Denise and Josiah viewed me as sufficient.

They had a legit marriage license.  That’s the document the state of Georgia does require and may occasionally even scrutinize — but apparently not for the bona fides of the officiant who pronounces them husband and wife.

About the wedding, which took place on the lawn behind the hotel at Chateau Elan:

I pulled the ceremony from the internet and lightly rewrote it.  I trod very lightly in religious language, but strengthened material that lectured the happy couple on how to maintain a long-term relationship.  I felt I was a legitimate purveyor of such counseling.

Because Denise is a native of Germany with family in the audience, I asked the internet — and the German woman who cares for Mrs LAF and my preschoolers — to help me come up with German translations for two key phrases:

  • In this ceremony, we will witness the joining of Denise and Josiah in marriage.   Freunde, wir haben uns in Anwesenheit dieser Zeugen hier versammelt, um Denise und Josiah in der Ehe zu vereinen.
  • I now pronounce you husband and wife. Hiermit erkläre ich Sie zu Mann und Frau.

I practiced reading those lines out loud a lot.

Also eliminated the line that says “by the power vested in me…” substituting the TV news phrase “with that…”  The line about “power” seemed a presumptuous word to use for a guy who surfed the web to get it.

Clint holds his own against his sister.

Clint holds his own against his younger sister.

Our three year old, Yvonne, was the flower girl.  She did a nice job of tossing rose petals.  She also dragged it out a bit.  She knows she’s cute.  She seemed to believe the attendees were gathered to see her.

The ceremony was not flawless.  I realized that my text had the groom saying twice the “I Josiah take you Denise” line, failing to flip the line to the bride. I also spotted some duplication immediately after.  I had to sort that out during what the wedding party (said they) thought was simply a well-timed dramatic pause.  The wife, on the other hand, knew something had slipped up.

Yes, I had practiced the ceremony. But apparently I failed to fully proof-read my copy.  I should have had a second set of eyes on it.

Otherwise, the performance felt solid. The attendees seemed to like it. The couple beamed. Some German speaking people in the audience said my attempt at uttering phrases in their language wasn’t too awful.  The experience was very gratifying.

Afterward, one of the attendees asked me if I was Jeff Dore.  Of course.

If Jeff, as a retired newsman, isn’t conducting weddings by now, he should be.

Then he and I could vie for those coveted “clergy” spots behind Manuel’s tavern.

Doughy Bowie

With Mrs. "Thin White Duke" LAF

With Mrs. “Thin White Duke” LAF

Suit from D&K warehouse, Memorial Drive.  Two for $100! (Eight years ago…)

Sax from daughter who yearned to play — until she actually had to learn how to do it.

Wife from DeKalb County, Georgia — who improv’d that hair color her ownself!.