Administrivia, General Chaos

Pat McGovern’s Insanity Clause

ComputerWorld is only 58 pages this week (and eWeek is only 64–but that's a story for another time). Given that this is October, and the usual summer advertising doldrums are over, this is not a promising sign.

However, ComputerWorld's been on deathwatch forever–and Pat McGovern, the owner of CW's parent, IDG–has a well-established fondness for the tabloid that defies logic. And he can afford to be irrational. He has lots of cash, no debt, and no real reason to cut off CW's life support now; it took him nearly a decade of red ink to sell off Federal Computer Week to 101 Communications, and that paper was something he started out of spite over Ziff's joint venture with Cahners at GCN (my alma mater, now owned by Post-Newsweek).

So, don't look for Pat to fold CW anytime soon; he's more likely to slash InfoWorld (and that's mighty unlikely as well).

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Administrivia, General Chaos

Pat McGovern's Insanity Clause

ComputerWorld is only 58 pages this week (and eWeek is only 64–but that's a story for another time). Given that this is October, and the usual summer advertising doldrums are over, this is not a promising sign.

However, ComputerWorld's been on deathwatch forever–and Pat McGovern, the owner of CW's parent, IDG–has a well-established fondness for the tabloid that defies logic. And he can afford to be irrational. He has lots of cash, no debt, and no real reason to cut off CW's life support now; it took him nearly a decade of red ink to sell off Federal Computer Week to 101 Communications, and that paper was something he started out of spite over Ziff's joint venture with Cahners at GCN (my alma mater, now owned by Post-Newsweek).

So, don't look for Pat to fold CW anytime soon; he's more likely to slash InfoWorld (and that's mighty unlikely as well).

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General Chaos

Baltimore Bullets

If another person from out of town asks me how I'm dealing with the sniper attacks, I'll….throw up.

Two weeks ago, my boss and I were on a conference call. He and I are both cyclists, and he asked if I wasn't concerned about getting shot while I was out on my bike. I replied, “One more nut running around with a gun here in Baltimore doesn't significantly change the odds.”

Baltimore's murder rate, made famous by David Simon's book (and Barry Levinson's TV series), is back up again this year, and the sniper hasn't wandered this far northeast to add to it.
We've got bigger problems than some pansy-ass sniper–the people who kill people here in Baltimore do it on a larger, more personal scale, and don't care if anybody sees them do it. The firebombing murder of a family of seven by a local drug dealer didn't even cause a blip on the national news; the mother had called police to report the drug dealer in an effort to protect her children.

So today, as I dropped my kids off at school and saw that a County police car was parked by the entrance, standing guard, I didn't feel relieved, or nervous about the implications of why the policeman was watching over me as I dropped my sons off. I was pissed off; pissed that one nut with a gun was creating an environment where people welcome a police presence, where the violence that we live with in the city every day was being overshadowed by a suburban sniper (where's the ATF and FBI when whole families are killed?) and where the governor actually suggests that having the National Guard at polling places will make people feel that it's safer to vote.

Considering some of the weekend warriors I saw guarding the airport not too long ago, I'd rather take my chances voting without the Guard, thank you.

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gallagheria

Return of the Rat Shovel

Paula comes into the house and says, “There’s a dead rat in the alley. I need to get rid of it before someone runs it over.” She grabs the rat shovel and a trash bag and heads out, determined.

A minute later, her resolve having fled, she returns. “It’s…still…MOVING!”

I hand her our sleeping daughter, and stroll out with the rat shovel. Sure enough, there it is; a 1.5 pounder, still twitching from the effects of rat poison like a drunk with the DT’s. I scoop it up and stroll to the nearest storm drain…a wrist shot, and it’s a GOOOOOOOOOOAAL.

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