Voiceless

Back in 1998, young, hip hotshot writer Steve Glass wrote a story for The New Republic that was quickly revealed to be a fake. Like many tales of writers who committed the ultimate journalistic sin, the one that might be worse than plagiarism, i.e. out and out fabrication, looking back it seems laughable that it was believed at all. (I don’t know if fabrication is worse than plagiarism. We can all agree, though, that plagiarizing a fabricated story would be pretty much as bad as it can get.)

Glass’ story, titled “Hack Heaven,” featured a 15-year-old hacker holding a company hostage. He had hacked into their computer network, see, and now the company wanted to hire him to prevent further attacks. According to Glass, it was cheaper for the company to just hire him to fix their database rather than go to the police.

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Always taking a backseat

I spent the first half of a basketball game last night watching the action, taking notes and watching over my shoulder to see when I was going to get in trouble.

I always get this way when I’m doing something “against the rules,” no matter how trivial the offense. Last night, I was a credentialed media member who just happened to be sitting in someone else’s seat. I haven’t had a seat all year at games, but when you cover Ivy League basketball there almost always just happens to be unoccupied seats on press row. (Who knew?)

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Valentine’s Day, massacred

The headline on the wire story in Sunday’s Inquirer screamed “Love or not, good times on Valentine’s Day vital, counselor says,” and it reminded me why I hate these sorts of holidays.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been bombarded with messages warning of impending Valentine’s Day doom. Ads on television. Signs in stores. I got press releases from every third company in town trying to get that one Valentine’s Day feature story PW will be running in the paper tomorrow. And I’ve been asked by friends about my Valentine’s Day plans.

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Happy birthday to me

Twenty-three years ago today, in a hospital in Northeast Philadelphia, one Daniel McQuade was born.

Er, wait. I guess it was 24 years ago. I never get this right. Let’s see, I’m 23 today, so I’m entering into my 24th year, right? I always feel embarrassed that I can’t ever figure this out.

Back in first grade, I used to get made fun of for my birthday. You see, when everyone else was already six years old, I was turning six on January 27, 1989, the youngest one in the grade. I was the youngest kid in high school, too, though by that time it didn’t matter much. It did matter again in college, when I didn’t turn 21 until the second half of my senior year, spending too much time wrangling with bartenders over fake IDs and sitting at home when everyone else was out.

That all seems so long ago now: feeling young, fake IDs, worrying about my age. And, of course, I am still young. It just doesn’t really feel that way anymore.

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Sunday evening quarterback

It is Sunday night. The warm faux spring days of the last week have ceded to a cold, blustery weekend, sending my heater into overdrive and my heating bills into the triple digits.

I am typing at my laptop in my bathroom, sitting on the counter and looking at myself in the mirror. I do this sometimes, to spark the creative juices. My face may not launch 1,000 ships, but it might launch 1,000 words. I don’t really know why sitting on the bathroom counter with my legs up against a cabinet makes me write, but so far it’s been the best writing place in my apartment.

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On Justice Sunday and losing my religion

I’ll begin with an admission: No, I didn’t watch “Justice Sunday III” over the weekend. I don’t quite get the whole politics/religion/judiciary mashup that’s the newest craze among all the hip Christians. I saw clips of the event, read a bunch of recaps (both online and in print) — and, well, it just seemed sort of a depressing event.

Everyone was so angry. Angry at “activist judges.” Angry at proponents of gay marriage, at the protesters outside, at whoever seemed to oppose their view of the world. Not that the protesters outside were any less angry, but, well, they’re protesters. They’re supposed to be angry and annoying and make stupid signs to get on television. The clips I caught were the angriest I had ever seen anyone in a church, even angrier than the priest who was trying to get we seventh grade alter servers to practice to serve the Confirmation mass. (We, of course, paid little attention, being seventh grade boys.)

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Essay: Cutest essay ever!

Today’s essay is all about cuteness, specifically a New York Times article about it. Even if you don’t usually read these things, there are cute photos after the jump, so you should totally click through. I’ll probably stop doing these annoying intros for my next essay, and just start having the first two paragraphs or so before the jump and let everything speak for itself.

Anyway, for now, cuteness in words and photos, after the jump.

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Essay: The joys of minutiae

The essay schedule isn’t always going to be fluid, and I apologize for not having one yesterday. But, hey, here’s one today. And it’s very lighthearted about. It’s about trivia and Jeopardy — I omitted the exclamation point in the essay for readablility — and why I love both.

Ehm, it’s not the most focused thing I’ve ever written. (It was originally about something totally different and somehow became this homage to trivia.) Hope you enjoy. It’s after the jump.

For an archive of essays, you can go here.

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Essay: Yesterdays and tomorrows

As promised, another reflection on my trip to New York last weekend, which you may or may not care about. (As usual.) I set out to write about seeing old friends for the first time in months, but instead I ended up writing about my own ennui for most of it, just getting to my original idea at the end. But I think it turned out fairly well.

This might be an upbeat essay. Or maybe it’s a downer and I complain too much. (That last part is most certainly true, but complaining — especially in print — helps you work out problems, no?) Whatever your feeling on it, feedback, thoughts, typo corrections are obviously all appreciated. It’s dmac@philadelphiawilldo.com. Essay after the jump.

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Essay: Just along for the ride

Hello, dear reader! I bring you great tidings of joy and another essay. (Okay, I really only bring you the latter.) But aren’t you excited? Maybe not. A quick word: The essays for the next two days will be about my last weekend, when I was in New York visiting old friends. Originally, it was just supposed to be one essay, but then I split it an expanded each section. At the request of a loyal reader, I’ve tried to avoid references to college — which wasn’t really the case Monday. (See? You write in; I answer.) Yay for technology (and an overly receptive-to-criticism writer)!

I don’t know if either essay is any good (as usual), and you might be bored by today’s — about a train ride Sunday morning — but maybe you’ll enjoy it. But, hey, what do you know? There’s only one way to find out! After the jump.

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