From the work blog: Why newspapers shouldn’t love short stories.

It was a hot, boring day in July, 2003, when I was considering quitting my lousy newspaper job and going full-time freelance, when I came upon Sarah Hepola’s hilarious and alarming ”The Key to a Successful Freelance Career.” It did not (and nor did it intend to) convince me that freelancing was the way to go — and although I’d soon forget that lesson and quit my job for freelancing anyway, the story stuck with me, and so did her name. It became one of those bylines I took notice of: If I happen upon ”Sarah Hepola” atop a story, I’ll generally read what comes after. I don’t know anything about her and don’t go Googling for her latest work, but then, nor do I seek out N.R. Kleinfeld, and yet I’ve read a ton of his work, too. And once you’ve read enough of someone’s work, and become familiar enough with their name, you start to feel like you get to know them — not really, of course, but just with that kind of casual familiarity, like all those people you said “hi” to in college but never actually stopped to chat with.

And then one of them takes their shirt off for you, and puts their boobs up in your face. Hey there!

Luckily, it wasn’t N.R. Today I followed a The Morning News link to “Busting Out,” a funny, thoughtful piece Sarah wrote for Salon about her apparently enormous boobs, and her quest for self-acceptance and a fitting bra. Had I not recognized the byline atop this piece, it would have just been an entertaining read, and an insight into large-breasted women. But now I feel a little weird. Creepy, really. Now I feel like I’ve stalked someone on the Internet, and unearthed naked pictures of them. Oh, Sarah. This is awkward. Our relationship is moving faster than expected. What will we say in the morning?

That’s from today’s Gardner News, kindly forwarded to me by a former colleague. You might recall the paper from these great hits, and this tale of woe.

Mitt Romney has used corny jokes to deflect issues and charm voters all campaign long. But his comedic stylings seem awfully familiar. Which leads me to my latest post for the work blog: Can you tell the difference between Romney and late-night comedians?

If I had the time and video-editing knowledge, I’d have a viral video flying around the web by noon today. But alas, I have neither, so here it is: A free idea for instant Internet success!

Opening shot: Former Arkansas Gov. Mike Huckabee at last night’s debate, saying, “Most people in this country are more afraid of an audit than they are of a mugging.”

Cut to: Some impoverished-looking guy I find on the downtrodden streets of Dorchester. I’ve approached him, as I’m approaching all random people in this poor area of town, to pose Huckabee’s premise.

Me: “Sir, a quick question: Are you more afraid of an audit than a mugging?”

Him: “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

Cut to: Some other downtrodden guy.

Me: “Sir, are you more afraid of an audit than a mugging?”

Him: “You ever see the kids around here?”

And so on. Because, seriously now: Maybe rich, Republican voters are more afraid of an audit than a mugging (and certainly, Republican lawmakers with something to hide are very afraid of audits), but most Americans? This out-of-touch rhetoric is ripe for a little take-to-the-streets contrast. Someone, please, go make this video. I can’t wait to see it.

Close readers of this blog, if such a thing exists, might remember a post from June that described how I met two editors to talk about two different opportunities, and learned afterward that I was walking around with an enormous rip in the backside of my pants. The first opportunity, of course, worked out grand: It was to talk about the gig I have now at Boston mag. The second one, less exciting than a full-time job but fun all the same, bears fruit today: It’s the new edition of Time Out Boston (a travel book, not a magazine), which is now out, and to which I contributed a bunch of chapters. Amazon, for some reason, shows a different book cover than the copy I got, but I assure you, it’s out.

I started work on this thing soon after I moved into the city, which made it a great crash course in where the hell everything is. When my parents visited, I rattled off info like a tour guide. And a little while ago, they paid me in pounds, because it’s a British company. (Holla, Gisele!) So: Ye all traveling to Boston and turning to me as your guide, I apologize in advance.

In September, I donned men’s leggings for a fashion experiment in Boston magazine. And in the December issue, another disaster awaits: me in ninja chic. That picture above is me in the outfit, before the Nick Hornby event (mentioned in the piece) began.

With the Miami Dolphins sucking with such steadfast consistancy, the Florida press is struggling to find new ways to describe the level of suck. Today’s attempt: A Sun-Sentinel writer delves into why H. Wayne Huizenga, the team’s ultra-rich owner who’s built three Fortune 500 companies, can’t make the Dolphins successful. And here’s how the writer frames this quandry:

Clearly, victories in the boardroom don’t guarantee on-field performance, making it common for fans to wonder: How can a guy be such a successful businessman and be so unsuccessful when it comes to his sports team?

Wha? Seems that would, uh, kind of resolve the story, right? Victories in the boardroom don’t guarantee on-field performance. The paper says it right there. And if that we’re so clear on that — clearly! — then why would it be common for fans to wonder how a guy can be such a successful businessman and be so unsuccessful when it comes to his sports team? Clearly, cows do not squirt ice cream out of their udders, making it common for ice cream lovers to wonder: Why can’t they get ice cream directly from cows?

In mostly unrelated news: I Googled Huizenga and discovered he’s joined the Romney campaign. Surely there’s some irony in Romney, a guy plagued by flip-flops, teaming up with a man whose team logo is Flipper.

Reason #1 is that I could never grow anything as furry as this fake ’stache we were playing with last night. My facial hair does “sketchy, dirty dude” really well, but “full-bearded man” is not in its repertoire.

A woman named Jaileen (pictured) was arrested when police found her three young children living in a trashed home filled with shit and dirty animals. Aaaaaannnddd, cue the community’s righteous indignation, via the comments section in the newspaper that reported it. Here’s one early commenter:

I blame her parents for not giving her the proper foundation. She is to blame and will do the time but someone enabled her to live like this and she obviously didn’t learn to keep a house or her own children clean.

 After some more of this, Jaileen’s sister, writing under the name “Humiliated,” responds:

You people should really consider getting a hobby. Do not judge my entire family for my sisters actions. She does need serious help, but if she refuses it time and time again and continuously uses people and manipulates them - everyone gives up eventually. I wish I had answers for you, but I don’t, I’ve been beating my head against a wall for my entire life with her, and if I had the ability I would raise the kids myself. But I ask that you stop with the speculations.

There are a few more exchanges, and Humiliated, in trying to defend her family against the army of keyboard psychologists, explains some of the hardship that Jaileen has caused. “Not that this explanation is necessary, because it isn’t your damn business,” Humiliated concludes, correctly. Then someone named StuartChick responds:

Humiliated, I beg to differ with you. When she got arrested, it *did* become my business and the business of everyone else. I am a taxpayer and I like to know who I am supporting! Do you think the costs for keeping someone in jail is free? Money has to come from somewhere ;o) … Sorry to break the bad news to you, but now it *is* our business. Next time maybe you and your family should foot the bill and keep it all private ;o)

Right. Because no doubt, StuartChick’s primary concern is with itemizing the public good of her taxes.

A bar in Shrewsbury lost its liquor license, according to the Telegram & Gazette, “after patrons were unknowingly served cheap beer when they ordered high-end beer.” You have to slog through a dense, boring story before getting to the explanation of the big switch-a-roo: “investigators determined that patrons who ordered Budweiser or Miller Light beer were actually served Keystone Light, a much cheaper beer.”

First of all, it’s Miller Lite. But more importantly: Did this reporter just say Budweiser and Miller Light are high-end beers? Compared to what, Schlitz? Somebody, please, buy her a drink.

On Tuesday, I went to a launch party for Kübler absinthe, a brand of the green, mystique-laden drink that, after nearly a century of a U.S. absinthe ban, has been approved for sales inside the country. (The drink is imported from Switzerland, considered the birthplace of absinthe.) The drink was long feared to have a mind-altering, hallucinogenic effect, and the party was, as you might expect, a theatrical affair — held in a booty club called Aria, filled with models dressed with butterfly wings. As the night went on, the mostly business crowd unwound, took to the dance floor, grinded up against each other. A couple started heavily making out near the bar.

But was this the result of absinthe? I submit to you: Sure, because it’s booze. But it’s no different from any other.

The mystique clearly draws people to the drink. Party-goers were trying to evaluate the absinthe’s effect on them, and made the kind of claims I remember kids in middle school making when they pretended like they had been drunk for the first time: that everything feels clearer, more heightened, more flush. Placebo, all of it. I had four glasses (which, at 53 percent alcohol, ain’t kidding around, even if some of them were mixed drinks), and felt just as if I had downed a fair amount of Disaronno.

Don’t get me wrong: Absinthe (or at least, absinthe as we know it now, which isn’t anything like absinthe as it once was) is nice. It’s a fun, high-maintenance drink that requires the liquor, a sugar cube, a cool-looking spoon, and ice water. When ready to drink, it’s cloudy and light green, and everyone says it tastes like licorice, except better. A little sweet, bitter without the sugar. But absinthe was banned for reasons of politics and hysteria (according to the New Yorker’s absinthe piece from last year, sadly not online in full), and its legend as a mind-changer grew from that, not the drink itself. The party-goers didn’t seem interested in (or informed of) that boring truth, though, and I suspect that’s why Kübler will succeed.

Perhaps you’ve seen this ad for Mitt Romney, which features him jogging through a park, focused on the task at hand, while a speaker links his physical determination to his leadership abilities? What you probably don’t know, and what I wrote about in a little item in this month’s Boston, is that Mitt isn’t always fond of running, and certainly doesn’t see it as a parallel to his leadership skills. An athletic flip-flop? Perhaps.

Florida teenagers are waiting years to get their driver’s licenses, according to the South Florida Sun-Sentinel:

Driver’s education teachers, parents and teens suggest several reasons, from tougher license requirements to a growing awareness of the dangers of driving. The high cost of gas and insurance, as well as protective parents, may also be factors. …

In 1996, Florida started requiring teens to have a learner’s permit for six months before applying for a permanent license. In 2000, the mandatory wait increased to a year. What’s more, novice drivers must obey curfews or be accompanied by someone at least 21 unless they are going to or from work. You must be at least 16 to have an operating license.

In 1996, when I got my driver’s license in Florida, the driving test was so easy that it took place almost exclusively in a parking lot. I got in the car with the examiner, drove forward, reversed, parked in a large, SUV-friendly parking spot, backed up, exited the parking lot, drove half a block, turned right, drove another half-block, re-entered the parking lot, did a three-point turn, and was done. Couldn’t be easier. I could have done that test half asleep. Hell, I was 16: I probably did do that test half-asleep.

Florida roads are full of elderly, barely competent drivers, who can’t see over the steering wheel and drive 20 mph on the highway. They, more than just about anything else, make the roads there frightening. I wonder if this fits into teens’ 
“growing awareness of the dangers of driving” (as the Sun-Sentinel described it). If so, that might be the only example of generational table-turning, when young whippersnappers are the ones afraid of their elders.

Final note: The story is accompanied by a photo of this lad –

– who is a 16-year-old waiting to get his license, perhaps until, he says, he has a girlfriend. His mom, as quoted in the article, is clearly pleased with her son’s decision-making. It’s hard to read in the reflection, but he’s wearing a shirt that says, “I’m out of bed and dressed.” The second line of this strangely widespread shirt is, “What more do you want?” Which is kind of funny, and take your pick why: It’s a shirt portraying an irresponsible and aloof slacker, worn by a kid who is clearly neither of those things and making momma proud; or a shirt portraying laziness, worn by a kid who just hasn’t gotten around to getting his license.

Happy Halloween. My friend Mike Singer has some holiday tips for you.

And if you liked that, the man has also been doing a great job covering the California wildfires.