Bothered

Last Friday, I saw Seattle Police Officer Timothy Brenton's family get out of a black SUV with tinted windows. I saw the family walk through a human gate of saluting law enforcement officers, a sea of blues and reds, into the empty hole of Key Arena. I saw Officer Brenton's son carrying the American flag, his daughter in a pretty dress, both tow-headed and solemn. I wondered if these two small children understood the gravity of their father's funeral, a man who died while serving the city of Seattle, a man executed while doing his job. Reporters around me struggled to hold in tears at Officer Brenton's memorial service, as the gigantic video display showed this man as a boy, as a married man, as a father. He was always smiling.

Last Friday the newsroom erupted in shouts, ringing phones and live interviews as police zeroed in on the suspect of this horrific crime. We went wall-to-wall with breaking news coverage, the excitement of it all a papable buzz. The man had turned his gun on detectives, and was shot in the head, rushed to Harborview. He's recovering now from his wounds, something the Officer he's accused of murdering will never do.

There's a Facebook page dedicated to Officer Timothy Brenton, and 20-thousand people are members. His wife, Lisa, posted pictures of that fatefall Halloween: the kids carving pumpkins, walking down a wooded trail. Underneath the photo is the caption: The Last Walk. I think of that family, loving each other, celebrating this Halloween day, and kissing their father and husband goodbye. None of them knew he'd go out on patrol, and get blasted with fire from an assault rifle, never to come home again.

Last night I dreamed of this woman, Lisa, this devastated wife. I went to her house for an interview, no recording devices allowed, and she told me how much she was hurting, how she was trying to rebuild her life. I think about her often and what she must be going through, a feeling I hope I never know.

Today I will attend a press conference at the King County Prosecutor's office, to find out what charges they will levy against this Christopher Monfort. He's accused of killing Officer Timothy Brenton, wounding Officer Britt Sweeney, and firebombing several police cars in downtown Seattle. The accused man's motives will never be understood for me, but hopefully through this charging, the family will find some peace.

Paranoia

I had a very hard time falling asleep last night. I lay in bed, tense, waiting for the next strange noise. Normal creaking sounds became a man inching up the stairs. The muffled slam of car doors became gangsters surrounding our house. People working outside far away became someone trying to pry open and climb through our living room window. Even my cat was tense, her ears swiveling like antennae. I woke David up.

"I keep hearing noises, and I can't sleep," I told him.


"Point out the next noise."

So I did, and he explained it. I pointed out the next one. He explained it.

"This is why I can sleep, because I know what those noises are. You are just too close to the news." Soon he began to breathe deeply again, and I tried to relax.

It's true, I am too close to the news. The recent home invasion, rape, and murder of a woman in South Seattle, just one block away from my friend's house, has affected me deeply. He used to see these women smiling and laughing on evening walks. I almost cried when I read the court documents telling how this man picked a home at random, pried open the bathroom door, tortured two women. One fought back and died, the other escaped. I keep picturing their fear and desperation, and I put myself in their situation. How would I act if a man came into my bedroom with a knife? Would I fight back? Should I learn how to shoot a .22 and keep it in my bedstand?

I never used to have thoughts like this before I was in the news. I felt safe most of the time, and why shouldn't I - I live on Bainbridge Island next door to two cops. But as I lay there in bed, headlines dashed through my brain.

"Bainbridge Island rocked by random murders."

I can see the news reporters interviewing people, reading court documents, and its all too vivid. Maybe I need a vacation, or I need to take a deep breath, and remember, these random, frightening attacks are very rare. I just feel so sorry for that woman who died, and her partner who loved her. Maybe this story is all too real for me because I interviweed the murderer's mother, only a week or so prior. Monsters do exist.

"Fort Fisher" aka "The Bunker" aka "Old School Style"

I'm a day late and a dollar short in posting about our amazing experience at Fort Fisher at Queen Anne hill, and feel like this is "old news." I'm fighting the news reporter inside me who would scoff at posting a story a day late, and I'm posting it anyway, because I'm sure many people are curious about my unforgettable experience in the transmitter building.

A fire overnight in an electrical vault fried a bunch of servers in Fisher Plaza, and cut the power supply for a myriad of radio and television stations. KOMO Newsradio and KOMO TV had to get creative to broadcast. For radio, that meant holing up in a World War Two style bunker building, where the anchors used a tiny board reminiscence of my college days, hand-held mics, and paper copy. When I got there KOMO's Charlie Harger and Nancy Barrick were broadcasting to thousands of people, like this:

I had a sudden urge to to find some carts, use a boom box sized marantz, or even start cutting tape. I felt underdressed in jeans and a tank-top as I was transported back to 1957. I should be wearing pumps and a hat, and holding a tumbler of Jack Daniels with clinking ice cubes. Never mind, a woman wouldn't have been a journalist in 1957. But KOMO reporter Jon Repp would have, as he squats elegantly near his laptop. Personally, I think he needs a fedora and a Cuban cigar to finish the look.

My role as a news reporter was quickly changed, as I became the person responsible for coordinating and putting audio on the air. I downloaded ABC updates and reporter wraps on one computer, and tranferred them to another. I spent my entire day several inches from the floor, on a beat-up, dirty footstool. Welcome to the "glamorous job" of being in "the media"!

We worked tirelessly to be on the air. Some would say, "why?" Why not just put the best of Schram and Carlson and forget about it? Star 101.5, the top rated radio station in Seattle, was so lucky. The entire radio broadcast was done by Ipod, and an electrical box sitting on the floor.
I think as journalists, we feel an ownership over the content of KOMO Newsradio. We know our mission is to inform and entertain the thousands of people who are listening to us. So we busted our butts to bring news, traffic, sports and weather, even though the anchors were working without computers. Below is KOMO anchor Herb Weisbaum with the 5pm rundown, which is scrawled on a wrinkled piece of paper.

I can't begin to explain how fun this experience was, and how it brought the team together. We are all professionals, and made do with what we had at hand. It also reminded us that great radio isn't about the fancy electronics, computer programs, breaking news and the AP wire. It's about being human, and doing our best for our listeners.

(KOMO anchors Lisa Brooks and Herb Weisbaum)

Ever member of the team stepped up. KOMO's Travis Mayfield did reports live in the field all day long, editor Jeremy Grater scheduled live interviews on a black phone from the 1980's, Mark Aucutt hand wrote the sports reports, Art Sanders came in hours early to hand-write leads on crinkled, lined paper.

Journalists are unique in a way that we are able to improvise. We laughed, chatted and had a great time. None of us felt overly stressed (most of the time) or got on each other's nerves. I can't begin to describe how much fun I had doing "old school radio" at the Bunker on Queen Anne.

Thanks everyone, for being so great. I'm so proud to be part of this team, wherever the broadcast takes us.

Fun with Troopers

One thing I love about my job is when I get to experience other people's lives. Yesterday, I felt what it was like being a Washington State Trooper on I-5, looking for speeders and other dangerous drivers. I think a lot of people have a certain stereotypes about cops, picturing them as masculine and mean, just in the business for the rush of bossing people around. With Trooper Keith Leary, I learned they were anything but.

We started by parking on an onramp above I-5.

"We don't hide or set traps. I'm here, visible to anyone who cares to look." However, people would have to be staring in their rear-view mirrors to see us. He brought out the big guns, well, laser gun that squealed every time he aimed it at a passing car.

"I think we got one here," he said as he trained the Star Trek like device on a license plate. Beeeeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeeep. "Yup! 74, let's go!" He tossed the laser gun beside me and stepped on it, floored it, I'm talking petal to the metal. I could feel the G-forces as the V-8 engines roared and revved. Cars flew by in a blur as we zipped down the carpool lane.

"110 miles per hour," Leary said leisurely as he kept the car in his sights. I, on the other hand, was gripping the door handle as my knuckles turned white. We were flying, and damned if I wasn't holding on.

"Don't worry, I'm a driving instructor." That's not going to stop another car from cutting us off and sending us flipping into oncoming traffic, I thought.

"I trust you completely," I said, not letting go, "I've just never been this fast on a freeway before.....which......is a good thing."


He sped right behind the blue Prius, flashed his lights, and blipped the siren with a flick of his fingers. The car pulled over. Trooper Leary put on his hat. By the way, Washington State Troopers have been voted best dressed in the country. Their hats rock. I thought it would be weird if I asked for a picture.

"This is our radio that goes directly to dispatch," he showed me, "If anything happens, push that button."
He went and talked to the Beverly Hills, California driver, who admitted he knew he was speeding, but was doing it anyway. Leary told me the driver wasn't very receptive, and he wrote him a ticket well over $150. My thought was, the dude can probably afford it.



We pulled over several more cars, including a SUV towing a trailer that was wobbling like crazy. It looked like it could split off at any second, so Trooper Leary talked to the man, gave him a warning, and told him to pull off the freeway. With every person we stopped, I could tell the Trooper really cared about safety, and wanted people to think before they act.

"79 miles per hour," he said, pointing at a minivan we promptly sped after. "She's going that fast, and I can see children in the car. What are people thinking when they drive like that!"

He talked to everyone with a smile and a relaxed demeanor, and tried his hardest to get his point across that it's dangerous to speed. He told me that over the 4th of July weekend there will be 30 troopers on the road, so they can pull over DUI's and try to prevent fatalities. These guys are doing their jobs, and they are doing it to save lives.

Later, as I was interviewing the Trooper about another topic, he did something that saved my life, or better, my sanity. A gigantic daddy longlegs spider suddenly appeared at the dashboard in front of me, and speechless, I pointed as it crawled across the buttons.


"What is it?" he said.


"A spider. Please. Put it outside. Now."


I almost didn't want to tell him for fear he'd kill the little bugger, but I couldn't pretend to stay calm any more. He grabbed the dangly thing by one leg, and threw it out the window. I relaxed, and we continued the interview.


"If you get startled by a spider that can also cause you to drive aggressively and swerve in and out of traffic." He said this with a completely straight face, as I chuckled in the background.

It's just another reason why Trooper Leary rocks. Next time we're taking the airplane.

The day the music (pop) died.

Reporters have the tendency to joke - either when they don't believe something is true, or when it just too momentous to grasp. I was walking to the kitchen when the editor called out,

"Michael Jackson's been arrested again."

I rolled my eyes.

"Cardiac," he said.

It took me awhile to get it, and then I chuckled a tiny bit, and walked away. I was sure it was some sort of fluke or sick joke, that my coworkers were just messing with me. The King of Pop was allright, and was pulling a stunt, if anything. He's done weirder things before. And who can trust TMZ?

Suddenly it was all over major websites - LA Times, ABC, CNN - Michael Jackson has been rushed to the hospital in cardiac arrest.

TMZ was first to report his death. I sat at my desk, shellshocked, unbelieving. The other news organizations didn't catch up for a good 20 minutes, and I could picture journalists all rushing the phones, frantic, not wanting to print something they'd later have to retract. Newsrooms all over the country were buzzing in synchrinocity. Times like these are when I relish being a reporter, even through a sad event.

I was amazed at how Twitter exploded. I felt part of a grieving community as people from across the country mirrored my emotions, and posted links to their favorite Michael songs. The sadness I felt surprised me - I've felt for a long time that MJ is just a wack job, a strange man who had too many plastic surgeries. But I couldn't deny what his music did for our country, for our world. He was a musical genius, a stunning performer and dancer. Chidlren all over will be imitating "Thriller" and "Bad" for years and decades to come.

I don't think I've ever lived through such a momentous loss. I got chills when I read that the Associated Press sent out a Flash Bulletin, the highest possible, used for incidents like the John F. Kennedy death. This was one of those incidents that will change the identity of who we are as country. The King of Pop is gone, but his music will live on forever. I can't get "Rock with You" out of my head. RIP, MJ.

Teaching is not my forte

I almost fell over with an aneurysm when the editor came up to me yesterday afternoon with an intern in tow.

"This is ____. Can she sit with you for awhile while you show her what you do?"

Does. Not. Compute. My brain twitched like a malfunctioning android as I struggled to find my composure, finally managing a weak smile.

"Sure," I croaked, and I quickly clicked away from the website where I was reading about William Shatner...aka Captain Kirk...aka TJ Hooker...aka.....has-been-hottie. He'd just written an autobiography that I was reading on my Kindle, and I wanted to figure out if he was doing a book tour in Seattle, and if I could somehow interview him. That would be my ultimate interviewing dream.

It's a good thing he doesn't look like that anymore, or I might have dressed up like a green alien and gave him a big smacker.

Put that ray-gun away, Captain Kirk, that's innapropriate!! I digress. Back to my story.

The intern, who's incredibly sweet, sat next to me with unabounded curiosity written all over her face. She looked at my expectantly, like "Teach me! Teach me!"

I panicked, stuttered, and pointed at the screen.

"Here is what I did today. Ummmm....this story, that story, and that story." My finger tapped the wraps, debriefs, and writes. I had no idea how to explain what I'd done. Eventually, with her questions, I was better able to explain what I had done, why I used phone tape, how reporters operate, how I edited soundbites.

I've always been a terrible teacher, and have never particularly enjoyed teaching. I just want people to watch what I do and pick it up, without my having to explain anything.

"Kristin, how do I move my hips like that in salsa?"

"Like this!" I show them, thinking that should be enough.

"Well, do you twist a certain way? Just HOW do you DO it?"

This is when David swoops in, the natural teacher, and explains it perfectly. Timing, steps, movement, frame, spins, rhythm. I look at him in wonder, curious how he can compartmentalize these things into speech. He's a natural teacher, and he loves it. I wish to see him in that type of profession one day. I love to write, I know how to put images to words, but teaching? No way. Just give me Captain Kirk.

As if crossing the crime scene tape makes me a criminal

There are several things I'm afraid of as a news reporter: young men (we've already gone over that) , funerals and crime scenes. I had an experience in Portland that scarred me when I was a cub reporter, and now when I see crime tape, I want to wrap myself into a huge yellow bundle and hide, hoping cops won't see me as I peek between the lines.

I had to cover a standoff in Southeast Portland many years ago, since standoffs are typical fodder for a slow news day, or for a news station that only cares about crime. I circled the scene looking for the media staging area, which is a safe place to park our news trucks, and where we talk with the PIO (public information officer.) Reporters hover like puppy dogs in these designated lots, where we stand begging for tidbits. We'd eye cops in uniform huddling and whispering in hushed tones, and salivate for a variety of reasons.

Anyway, this time, I couldn't find the media staging area, so I kept driving, around and around and around. Apparently, a dude had barricaded himself inside an apartment with a gun, and police had several streets blocked off around the crime scene. I drove into a parking lot, and then found a small alley, and began driving slowly toward the commotion. I thought I'd spot the PIO, and could ask a few questions for my liveshot.

And I found the cops, all right. I knew something was wrong when I saw SWAT officers hiding behind cars right next to me, and on balconies in front of me. I suddently felt danger as a big burly man walked viciously to my car.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!!" He shouted, several feet away.

"I'm,,...uh....trying to find the PIO." I stuttered and my heart pounded. I just knew this guy was going to arrest me from impeding an investigation.

"Get out of here...NOW. And don't EVER come into a crime scene. Do you understand me?!!!"

He was seething, staring at this dumb blond reporter like I was the bubble gum he'd wipe off the bottom of his cop boot. Like I was a spit ball pounded deep into the crevices of sidewalks. Or a piece of corn that already passed. Yes, it was that bad.

I backed up as fast as I could without causing another reason for my arrest and sped out of there. I was scared beyond belief. I could have been shot! I could have been tackled! I could have gone to jail!

These are the thoughts that assault me every time I go to a crime scene. Today, I dangled around the edges of a crime scene in Everett until I got up the guts to walk past the orange cones, past two cop cars, and right up to the trooper on the offramp of Highway 2. I'd like to pretend its because I'm brave, it's because I've gotten over my crime scene fear. But it was really because I saw a guy from a television station, setting up his camera. It was the media staging area. I'd finally found it.

Zombies and assault rifles and cops - oh my!!

Last night I was sent out to cover a Zombie Crawl in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle. I thought it would be uneventful, and a little odd. I was going to do a couple of live hits on the radio, take a video for the website, and call it a day. To be quite honest, I wasn't looking forward to seeing blood and guts and rotting skin. It all sounded too gross and strange for me.

I was lingering outside Metro Clothing waiting for the Zombies to show up, when I saw a man on the other side of the street who scared the living daylights out of me. He was wearing all black, a gas mask, and carrying what looked to be an assault rifle. My brain told me it was fake, but my instincts didn't take any chances. Images of news stories about public shootings flashed in my head as I watched him cross the street in front of a parking enforcement cop. It was toward my side of the street. I quickly turned around and started walking. Fast. I imagined sprays of shots hitting passerby. I scanned for hiding places. My heart pounded as I saw cop cars screech around the corners. My reporter insticts took over and I stopped walking to see the action.

One cop stopped in the middle of the road and asked people standing on the street where "the man in the swat uniform went." One guy pointed at Metro Clothing. The SPD officer got out of his car, then pulled out an assault rifle. Cha-ching. He cocked it and started walking quickly toward the store, as other police with guns drawn, and members of the Seattle gang unit ran inside Metro Clothing. Blue and red lights flashed on Broadway. I expected to hear shots ring out. I grabbed the video camera and turned it on, the picture shaking from adrenaline. I was the only news reporter at the scene, and by golly, I was going to capture this takedown.

I had the camera trained on the guy as they pulled him out of the store in handcuffs. They took him to a patrol car in the middle of the street, and removed the gun, and a grenade. At this point the man was smiling as he talked to the officers, and I even saw one of the cops crack a smile. I had no idea what on earth was going on. I did live hits on the radio, describing the scene to the best of my ability. This was turning out to be the weirdest story I'd ever covered.

I later found out this guy was a zombie, who was coming for the Zombie Crawl. He was dressed as a character from Resident Evil, who hunts zombies. His outfit looked a little too realistic, which he found out the hard way. It was definately a rush covering this story, and I'm glad it didn't turn out differently. The story is now on the front page of our website. You can read the story, and watch the video, by clicking on the link below:

http://www.komonews.com/news/local/46506782.html

What a very weird Friday evening. It was a zombie of a good time.

I hope this morning is not predictive of the day to come

My schedule has changed so much in the last couple of weeks at work I don't know who I am anymore, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I've gone from AM reporter, to midday reporter, to PM reporter, to PM editor, to midday reporter, to PM reporter, then next Monday AM reporter again. In that order. My body clock is confused. Heck, I'm confused, and it all culminated in a frantic morning.

When I sleep in for 3 days straight and get home after 8pm, my body starts assimilating to that schedule. So, last night when I really needed to go to bed early, there was no way I was falling asleep. So I laid there. And laid there. And this morning, when my alarm was supposed to go off at 645am, it didn't. The light woke me up. At 7:20. I had to be out the door at 7:35. David and I looked like two big balls of arms and legs as we ran frantically around the house. I took a 2 minute shower, brushed my teeth with Olympic speed, threw my clothes around, threw my hair dryer and makup in a bag. David made me coffee to go and put all my things in the car.

We were out the door, in the car, when I said:

"I forgot my glasses!" So up David ran into the house, up the stairs, and I remembered I forgot something else. I slammed the door right into him as he was coming out of the house, grabbed my bag, and off we went!

I managed to make my ferry with a few minutes to spare, which could be considered early. I joined the masses in the bathroom, where women stand in a row at a face-level mirror and put on makeup and blow dry their hair. I did that, quickly, with enough time to write this poorly-written blog.

Frantic, I am. What am I supposed to be doing today? Can I please just go home.

I hear voices sometimes.

There is one negative consequence of being in radio: my ears are super tuned in to voices. I just had to move to another part of the ferry to get away from a loud, obnoxious voice spouting words in a pitch that made my skin crawl. It sounded like here voice box was in her nose, and she was a combination of a munchkin, and Shrek. I'm sure the woman is very nice, and I feel like a bad person saying this, but her voice was like needles on a chalkboard. I tried to sit there and ignore it, and read my David Baldacci novel, but every word coming from that ferry bench was like a stab wound in my ears. So now, I'm in the galley. Thank goodness the ferry flirt is not sitting by me this time.

The one perk about working in a newsroom is that everyone has a wonderful voice. People understand inflection, tonality, the rise and fall of sentences. They understand how to tell a story or convey an idea fluidly. Listening to radio people speak is beautiful, and I admit, I get spoiled by this, and notice when voices grind and screech, or when people speak haltingly, or end a sentence in a question mark.

I also am very sensitive to accents, and lisps. I can detect a hint of a Spanish accent in David's parents 'words, even though no one else can. I become spellbound by a good voice,..aka Patrick Stewart, or even some actors we have in studio. The voice is a conduit of so much meaning, so much emotion, which must be why I love radio so much.

I'm really thankful that all of the people close to me have nice voices. All my friends, family, etc. It is so vital for my warped eardrums.

A beer for a blog

Sometimes, one needs a beer to blog. Just a little liquid "brain lubricant." I'm sitting on the ferry in the bustling "galley", as professionals around me grab beer and book, beer and pretzel, beer and computer, beer and a friend. Then there's me: beer and blog.

It's been a long week, a crazy week of changing schedules and habits. I woke up at 4am both Monday and Tuesday, then spent the night at my friend Abby's house in North Bend on Wednesday. All this means two things: braindead for blogging, and no ferry for blogging. I don't know what I would do without this picturesque ride across Puget Sound to keep up my writing, and time to think.

I want to show you something, and I want you to look very closely at the below picture.

Do you see the observation deck? It's the largest ring on the top of the Space Needle. Look above that. Do you see the flagpole jutting into the sky, with a little prick of light at the top? I was standing RIGHT NEXT to that flagpole this week, and I was so frightened I almost had an accident in my pants, and then realized - hey, this is pretty darn cool. Just WHO gets to go to the TIPPY TOP of the Space Needle?

No, I wouldn't stand next to the outside railing for this photo, and made the KOMO television reporter who took this picture stand on the other side of the inside railing. I look cold, nervous, and the buildings are well......really, really small. That is because I am several STORIES above the observation deck. I know, I climbed three flights of steep stairs (ladders) to get here, which I'll show you later. AHHHH just looking at these photos freaks me out, or makes me want to base jump.

The center of this platform held the flagpole, and I stuck to the middle the entire time, with my hand on the inner railing, or against the middle tower. The flagpole was within my grasp, almost.

I took a lot of pictures of Puget Sound, and Bainbridge Island, because there was the widest distance between myself, and the outer railing. I wish I had gotten more of Queen Anne, or the lakes, but that side only had 10 feet, and I never set foot over there.

I guess I just wanted to see what my home looked like from very far up, and very far away. Can you see it? That tiny sliver of land mass 7 miles away. I love Bainbridge Island. In the below picture, you can see my dear friend, the ferry boat, and West Seattle in the distance. These aren't the best pictures ever because I was freaked out, and freezing.

What goes up, must come down, and I had to descent the three flights of stais (ladders) backwards, with my purse swinging haphazardly at my side. Other people seemed to have a better time of it:

I was there for the flag-raising of the "tourism matters" campaign. I just feel so lucky being a reporter; I get to do incredible things like this.

Ready.....Set....SWINE FLU!

Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu.
Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu. Swine flu.

I'm getting myself mentally prepared to jump into work feet first. I know I will probably land in a pile of swine flu, and repeat myself every half an hour. I might as well go out in the pig pen and just roll around. I have said that phrase so much in the last week, I don't know which came first: the swine, or the flu.

I know that most "normal people" (non-media) I speak with are tired of hearing about the swine flu. What they don't understand is that sometimes journalists get equally tired of talking about it, seeing it on Twitter pages, interviewing people about it, reading emails about it. When news gets big, it often gets into a repetitive cycle, a little like a broken record. We had this conversation at lot at work - how much is too much? I think that KOMO 1000 actually did a great job of covering the outbreak, with fact, not hysteria. Some of the stories I heard on my radio station calmed my fears, and now I'm just tired of hearing about the whole thing.

I already think the media is backing off the swine flu a little bit. I watched 60 Minutes last night, and was so thrilled they didn't even mention those dreaded words. The last week felt like a swine flu marathon, and the weekend was a much needed break. My Dad was in town, we had a BBQ, we ate at a relaxing pub on Bainbridge Island, we went on a walk to the park. We also used hand sanitizer more than normal.

I've gotten the swine flu out of my system, and I'm hoping the media has as well. I'm ready to start reporting about interesting things - like the astronaut getting ready to blast off in just a few days, he's the pilot, and he's from our state. Now that's something to talk about.

The closest I'll ever get to hugging Obama

It's not often that politicians hug reporters. Usually they look at us with a wary eye, maybe a nervous smile if we're lucky. They often talk without saying a thing, just turning words around and around until we're dizzy and confused. Tonight, I had a different experience as I headed to the Westin in downtown Seattle to King County Executive Ron Sims' going-away party.

Now, I've heard that Sims can be a "hugger", but I've never experienced the magic before first-hand.

"Mr, Sims? I'm Kristin Hanes with KOMO radio --- " But before I could finish, he smiled his goofy smile, braces and all, and grabbed me into a big bear hug. I awkwardly squeezed his shoulders.

"Congratulations, now..umm...can I ask you a few questions?" He continued to grin, then his eyes misted as he talked about Seattle, and his wonderful colleagues, and going to work in Washington DC.

"When the President of the United States leans forward and says 'will you work for me?' I don't know how you say no." His eyes twinkled as he turned to hug yet another group of unsuspecting people.

I can now say I've been hugged by someone in the Obama administration. So, if he rubs shoulders with the President, does that also mean that I have too? It's a little bit strange to have a politician open his arms to you, but for an instant, that boundary between interviewee and interviewer was erased. We were just two people, celebrating a new life, a new administration.

Good luck, Mr. Sims. I'm sure many in Seattle with miss you. (soon to be Deputy Director of the US Department of Housing and Urban Development.)

A lesson for "media relations" folks

It's surprising to me how many "media relations" people have no clue how to serve the media. It started out with a terribly written press release, where the main details were muddled into long words and complex thoughts. I have 5 seconds to read this, I need it to be clear and concise, cutting to the meat of the story in one line. After I used my precious brain power to decipher the intricate codes of the release, I decided it was a good story and headed to the press conference.

I almost ran the other way when I realized there were more media relations people than press people. I guess I didn't get the memo that shouted - BORING. They were dressed in suits, skirts; then I heard the word dreaded most by broadcast journalists: power point. God help me, I thought to myself as I served some coffee, and looked for any other free items I could pillage.

The first mistake of the press conference was having FIVE SPEAKERS. Ok people, I need only a few 10 second soundbites to create my package of 30 second stories. The speakers talked for 40 minutes. I sat there and examined my cuticles, trying my hardest not to appear catatonic. Then came the power point, and it became an effort to stifle my irritation. I couldn't help yawning, and doodling on the fancy shmancy press packet. He threw out gigantic numbers and details that would only interest a mathmetician. I was so bored I almost started feeling sorry for this speaker, who was probably used to speaking to his colleagues. "The media" is a tough crowd.

I hate being bored. I have things to do. I'm on deadline. I need to grab what I can get within 15 minutes, and then onto the next story. This took an hour, then I found the two people who could give me the story, and did two 3 minute interviews. That is ALL I NEEDED. It turned out to be a good story, but it's too bad I had to go through torture to get it. That's all that's needed to convince a journalist never to cover events put on by these "media relations" people again.

Luckily, I got over my anger and wrote the press lady a nice email. I told her that press conference was way too long for broadcast media. It may have served the print folks, but media relations is all about relating to ME, giving ME what I need. They need to learn how to do please all forms of media, and I hope my email will help this media relations person understand that.