Harris quit her reporting job at the Chicago Tribune last year to pursue a simpler life. She gave up the city, the stress and the suits, and now blogs about all that she has gained in return.

At the time, I admired that she admitted in her final Tribune column that she isn’t independently wealthy. Translation: Any of us could shun the material stuff and do what she’s doing.

Part of my fascination with her blog is that she and I went opposite ways — I traded journalism in for high heels, stock analysis and finance.  She left to start a family and grow her own vegetables.

She’s also a good writer, which makes reading her blog a guilty pleasure.

Today, she has posted a guest post from me. It’s an essay I wrote about my irrational love for my car.

Check it out, and leave a comment!

Seattle P-I employees hear that their paper might close (Andrea James/Jan. 8, 2009)

It was this day last year when news of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer’s impending shut-down hit the airwaves.

If you haven’t heard the story before: The P-I staff first learned of this terrible news by watching it on television.

It was after 5 p.m. and the staff was putting the paper to bed. A major winter storm had hit Washington state, and thus most of our daily coverage focused on that – I believe that I wrote something about hindered truck shipments into Seattle. Overall, it had been a satisfying day — plenty of news to fill our pages and I had beat deadline by about an hour.

But I wouldn’t be going home anytime soon.

Over in the business news section, editor Margaret Santjer saw something alarming on the television by the sports copy desk.  She fumbled with the remote control to the business section’s television, trying to switch the station from CNBC to the local King-5 TV news.

What we saw on the screen was shocking: The Seattle P-I was up for sale and would likely close.

I fired off this e-mail to my closest friends and husband:

Subject: OH MY GOD WTF!!?!?!?!  

I’m shaking so bad. everyone in pi gathered around the TV. this breakign news. WE KNOW NOTHING.

Source: Seattle P-I to be sold, or closed
04:58 PM PST on Thursday, January 8, 2009
By LINDA BYRON / KING 5 News

KING 5 news has learned that Seattle may soon become a one newspaper town. . . .

E-mails came flooding into me from friends who had heard the news. Amidst the shock, my editor realized that we had to report this development.

I followed up via e-mail to my core group of friends, “Great. Now I get to report this story. Trying to keep my composure and make calls.”

Reporter Dan Richman and I could not confirm the TV report that evening. A source/friend at King-TV told me that some producers there were uneasy about the story, but that it had been approved from on high. “I hope we’re right,” my television friend said. And then he paused awkwardly, “I mean, uh. . .sorry. . .”

I cut off his apology. I understood.

At one point after several unsuccessful calls, I slammed down the phone and said, “Linda Byron better have a damn good source!”

Boeing reporter James Wallace responded, “No. No, she better have a f*cking lousy source!”

I have to hand it to King-5: It was a great scoop. Some people in the newsroom said it was humiliating that we found out externally — imagine being scooped on our own demise!

Strangely, I did not share that sense of indignity. I tried to summon outrage, but for me the whole situation was just ironic.

I felt like I’d had plenty of personal scoops. Also, even though the business of media was one of many topics on my ever-enlarging-as-the-staff-was-shrinking beat, a P-I closure wasn’t on my radar.

In fact, in the past month I had been developing sources and monitoring the finances and court filings of our rival, The Seattle Times. That paper was so saddled with debt that it couldn’t pay its bills, and thus had to restructure and put properties up for sale. The banks were closing in with demanding covenants, and it seemed logical that the Seattle Times was on the brink of filing for bankruptcy protection. (Our closure was probably the paper’s lifeline.)

Also, as a business reporter who routinely tried to beat companies on their own layoff announcements, I felt like King-5 was giving me my just desserts. (Six months earlier, I’d sort of done it to Starbucks. Here’s a similar one on Getty Images and another on Safeco.)

Because we couldn’t confirm the report, we played it down. It ran in the bottom left corner of the business section (newly moved behind sports). The Seattle Times put its version, also unconfirmed, on the front page. I later found out from my sources at the Times that the editors there were shocked at how the P-I played the story. The Times’ confidence in its front-page placement came from its respect for King reporter Linda Byron, who is known around town for her diligence.

Before going home that night, wires editor Maren Hunt and I grabbed a neglected, dying, flimsy potted plant — sent weeks ago by a PR firm — and posted a sign to it that said, “Seattle P-I Official Plant.”

The next day, we found out that the King-5 report was true. I wrote to CBS MarketWatch’s Jon Friedman, “Things are crazy here. I’m writing the business news story about us…can you believe that? I just gathered newsroom quotes, interviewing crying reporters while I cried myself.”

That day, Dan Richman, Margaret Santjer and I fashioned a lede on our story of which I will always be proud: “After 146 years of delivering news, the Seattle P-I faces becoming what it has chronicled: history.”

Three months later, the newspaper shut down.

Dan and I reported that story, too. (This wasn’t even the first newspaper death I’d covered — two years earlier I chronicled the death of the King County Journal.)

There is something about the time-span of one year that makes you look back and assess. What a difference one year makes: One week in, and 2010 is already shaping up for me way better than the first week into 2009. So far, so good.

The economy is rebounding — taking its dear, sweet time, but rebounding. A redesigned Seattlepi.com lives on and thrives toward profitability. And I personally have found exciting and fulfilling work.

(Sadly, the P-I staff  has scattered and some still have not found jobs. Investigative reporter Ruth Teichroeb’s “where are they now?” piece is here.)

During all of the closure mess, a film crew came in to use the P-I closure as its subject to compete in a 48-hour documentary challenge. They shot and edited this short film in just two days!

After a year of screenings at film festivals around the country, including at the Seattle International Film Festival, the video has been posted online. It stars me, former P-I managing editor David McCumber and P-I columnist Joel Connelly.

Watching it is what inspired this post.

Alternatively, here’s a link to the video where you can learn more about it.

Now, I never altered a story to fit the lyrics and out more than 1,000 articles I wrote in my journalism career, it only happened about twice.  One was an article about cities that suffer from brain drain as youth flee to bigger cities in search of education, jobs, opportunities. In that one, I quoted, “Born to run.”

I also composed many of my articles while listening to Bruce. I’d put on my headphones and make sense of all of my data gathering while jamming away. The music helped me to focus and to feel lighter than I am, which enabled me to think faster and meet deadline.

Not only do I adore Springsteen’s music, I relate to it. Which creates a deeper connection than simple enjoyment. (My family hails from the same county in New Jersey that he does, and I have cousins who grew up in his hometown. But I think that his fans, no matter where they are from, universally share a connection to his music.)

Today, I wonder if my affinity for Springsteen’s music had an effect on how my articles shaped themselves. Did it influence me by making me write according to some theme of which I was not consciously aware? Would an analysis of my articles reveal a Springsteen bias?

New York Times columnist David Brooks, in an editorial that is half reflection-on-life and half ode-to-Springsteen, explores how Springsteen contributed to his non-formal education. He also remarks that our non-formal education contributes more to our happiness than what we learn in the classroom. I encourage you to check it out.

For the first time, I felt homesick for the United States. Having to work on Thanksgiving? Not only that, there were no news stories about busy airports and long lines at the Amtrak station. No Thanksgiving-related food drives for the needy. No children making turkeys out of paper plates and construction paper.

I had a turkey sandwich for lunch, some English afternoon tea and that evening, I set out to have dinner with two American friends, Kris and Mark. It turned out to be a great adventure — starting with a rickshaw ride down Regent Street in London and culminating with wine and the best dinner possible given the lack of American ingredients with which to make it. (They didn’t sell whole turkeys there!) (Story and photos from my blog at that time are at this link.)

The following year, I spent Thanksgiving with families in the Hurricane Katrina zone. I wrote one of the best one-day articles of my career.

Future Thanksgivings were spent with friends in Seattle, or working and eating the office potluck.

This is what life is like for most journalists, and every other type of person whose career takes her far from home. Home becomes a place you create.

This year, I find myself in yet another new city: Minneapolis. Another city that I’d never visited before my job interview. Another city to which I moved not knowing anyone but my employer. Another city that has its own personality and quirks (state fair!) that you just have to visit to understand.

Nearly everyone in my office invited me over for Thanksgiving — they know I am here alone and don’t hesitate to invite a near-stranger over to share the day. How’s that for good will and kindness?

But I do have plans. My friend from Northwestern University hails from here, and she’ll be in town for the holiday and her family has invited me to join in.  For that, I’m thankful.

And I’m also thankful for this American tradition. Londoners remarked to me that they don’t have a similar holiday in which everyone gets together and celebrates, no matter what their religion.

Now that I’ve lived on all American coasts, and in seven cities in 10 years, I can tell you — we’re lucky to have a holiday that transcends religion and politics.

Thanksgiving brings out the best in us, and we can be proud of that.

Happy Thanksgiving.

My Sunday morning walks to church have become time to treasure. Armed with hot coffee and comfortable shoes, I walk briskly through downtown Minneapolis, past the ducks in the park, and 30 minutes later, I settle into my pew. Today, I set out on my walk actively wondering what I would ponder along the way.

A young homeless man disrupted my flow. “Excuse me, can I ask you something?”

He looked at me, his words a clouded huff lingering in the cold. Baggy jeans, leather jacket, slicked back hair. The lit remnant of a smoked out cigarette dangled from his fingers, held away from his body.

I stopped walking to study him. He didn’t look like a typical bum. Too young. Face too clean. Eyes too clear.

“So, I was trying to buy coffee for a dollar,” he explained. “And they wouldn’t let me have it for a dollar, but all I have is a dollar, so can you give me a dollar seventy-five so I can have some coffee?”

I raised my eyebrows. Well now. This was different. Did he expect me to take pity on him because he was in need of coffee? He shrugged and tried to look pitiful.

Craving coffee was something to which I could relate. Plus, I was curious. So I flashed my Starbucks card and kept walking. “Walk with me to Starbucks and I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“They don’t like me there,” he warned, but he jogged to join me at my side.

“So you tried to buy coffee for a dollar?” I asked once we’d fallen in lock step. “Tell me about this.”

“Yeah, they wouldn’t sell it to me. I think it’s crazy that you can’t get coffee for a dollar.”

“Why do you think you should have coffee for a dollar, if that’s not the price?” I asked.

He stopped walking in the middle of the intersection and threw his hands out, unsure what to make of the question. “Are you serious? I don’t know if I should laugh or try to answer.”

I was serious. It wasn’t that I wanted to teach him a lesson in economics, I was honestly curious to know what he thought. And I was trying to figure out how a bright eyed kid like him had resorted to begging in the cold. “Well, Starbucks has to pay its employees,” I said. “They have to pay rent on that space here in downtown, which is expensive. They have to buy the coffee. Why would they sell it to you for a dollar?”

He was exasperated, but continued to walk again, probably thinking he’d stick out my questions in exchange for the coffee I’d promised.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “I guess I thought I was special.”

This made me laugh. “You’re special alright. But if everybody thought that way, Starbucks wouldn’t be there.”

We approached the cafe. “Ditch the cigarette,” I said. He took one final drag and threw it out.

I ordered a grande soy latte. “And he’ll have …” I looked at him expectantly. “Oh uh, I don’t know what to order. I’ll have some large, like, yeah, a really large coffee that’s hot.” Then he asked me, mockingly, about the soy milk, “What’s that? Is that some healthy shit?”

The woman at the counter recognized him. “You know him?” I asked. She nodded. I said, “He tried to get you to sell him some coffee for a dollar, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, apologizing. “And I can’t do that. If I did, my register wouldn’t tally up right and I’d get in trouble.”

I told her, “The next time something like that happens, tell the person that you have to get paid too.”

Meanwhile, a barista handed my new friend a venti brew. He took it over to the condiments table and popped off the lid. He poured the remainder of the sugar canister’s contents into it — about a quarter inch of sugar. Then he thrust the sugar jar at the cashier. “Can you refill this?” She did, and he emptied a few more tablespoons into his cup. Then, he decided that the coffee was too hot to drink. So he asked for a cup of ice. The barista graciously handed him a cup of ice.

He then plunked huge ice cubes into his cup, splashing coffee all over. “Careful, you’ll spill it,” I said. He assured me, “Don’t worry, I dumped some out.”

I got my latte and started to head out of the cafe. “Do you have plans?” I asked him.

He didn’t. So I said, “Walk with me. Then we can talk.”

We got to know each other — or rather, I peppered him with questions about his life and circumstances. He told me that lives in a shelter that costs him $30 per month. He begs for a living, but really dreams of being lead singer in his own band. He’s good at freestyle rapping, which he taught himself to do. He quit his previous band because the lyrics they asked him to sing were too “emo” — too down on life. He wants to “sing about happy shit.” He’s white, with clear skin.

He’s got family in Kalamazoo, Mich., and has been homeless off and on for several years. He is 21. High school diploma, but no college. He reads lots of books and is pretty curious about the world. Chooses homelessness because being in a band doesn’t pay enough. I detected some family trouble, but didn’t press him on it.

It struck me that he is blessed with a strong vocabulary and intelligent mind, but no formal training with which to wield either.

For instance, he started talking about existential philosophy, though he didn’t know that’s what it was. “Like, how do I know I exist? How do we know anything is real? Things are only real because I am here. Everything is our imagination,” he said, excited to share his ideas.

“You’re too smart to be living in a homeless shelter,” I said. “You’re talking philosophy now! And it doesn’t matter how real you perceive the world to be, reality exists. This stuff is fun to talk about but it won’t feed you. Can you get full by imagining food?”

He laughed and nodded. He rapped for me some lyrics on the fly, “Now that I’m grown, Heading into the unknown, I don’t know where it’s goin’” . . .It was a good conversation. He said he’d gotten good at manipulating people into buying him stuff — this was his way of making a living. He paused briefly to admire our surroundings — Loring Park, with a peaceful lake and ducks pecking at the frost-bitten grass. “I didn’t know this was here,” he said of the park.

I noticed that he wore no gloves. His knuckles and fingers were thick and dry — he had a big scab on one knuckle, probably from skin that burst in the cold. Or from a punch recently thrown.

We got closer to my destination. I pointed at my church’s steeple. “Look,” I said. “I’m going to that church. I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to sucker you into coming with me. But you’re welcome to.”

“You’re trying to manipulate me into coming to church!” he said, adding, “I’m just kidding. Yeah, I’m exploring about God, but I haven’t been to a church.”

We approached the entrance, “What’s your name?” I asked him. He said, “Zachary, or Zack.”

When we got in and sat down, he looked at me guiltily, and made a confession. “So, like, I, like, had enough money. I didn’t need money for coffee. It’s just that I’ve gotten good at asking people for things, and like, they give it to me.”

I stared at him blankly because I didn’t get his point. I didn’t realize that he was confessing something.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“So, you bought me coffee but I had enough money to buy myself a coffee.” He reached his hand in his pocket and pulled out some bills.

“I knew you had enough money for a coffee,” I said, rejecting his effort to pay me back.

“How’d you know!?”

I told him that I could tell from looking at him, and that most people who beg have money in their pockets. I did not tell him that I’d interviewed homeless people in Chicago once and learned a lot of the tricks. Or that I had seen immediately that he was clean shaven, which meant he couldn’t be that hard up.

“We’re cool,” I said. “It was a fair trade. I bought you the coffee so that you would talk to me.”

He slouched back against the pew. Then he perked up again. He wanted to tell me about his most recent fistfight. As he told his story, he got super animated and louder. I had to stop him when he got to this point in the story: “So he’s like, let’s go smoke a blunt! And I’m like, she ain’t go no business with you nigga!”

The white haired lady in the pew in front of us began to turn around.

“Shhhh!” I tugged on his sleeve. “Listen, you’re in a church, you’re going to alarm people. Tell me the story later, k?”

He goes, “Ok,” and sits back. “I’m trying to figure out if these people are real or not,” he said. I told him that every large gathering has real people and fake people, and that God only cares about our own hearts. But still, I got his point. I had the same amount of skepticism when I first started attending, around his age.

“Well,” he said, gesturing at the filling pews, organ and vaulted ceiling, “all this only exists because of me.”

“No,” I whispered, “I can assure you, I exist without you.”

“Prove it,” he said.

“I can’t.”

Then church began. He watched the baptism, mesmerized. “I’ve never seen one of these before,” he said.

The sermon covered a lot of ideas, but one of those ideas was the fallacy of people who too often say, “prove it.” The coincidence was too much! I pointed at him and snickered, and he laughed too.

We ate church brunch together in the basement, which I paid for because he had emptied out his pockets into the offering plate.

I noticed in the buffet line that his clothes were dirty. His white t-shirt was brown mostly, and it had some black graffiti design on it. I saw the tops of his under drawers, because his pants sat so low, and the drawers said, “BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH” all the way around the waist band.

He walked with a gangsta style, sauntering really more than walking. “Look at you Mr. Confident,” I said, bending my knees and swinging my shoulders in imitation.

“I’m so confused,” he said. “You see me looking confident like this. I walk like this because really, I’m confused. I don’t know what to do here.”

“Why are you confused?”

“Like any day, I can choose to be good or bad. But, I don’t know how to make the choices. If I choose one, then I can’t do another. Like, last night, I was bad. But then this morning, I’m good. It’s this roller coaster.”

I didn’t really have much to offer in response. I wondered what he had done the night before, but for once, I didn’t ask.

Every decision is a rejection of infinite other things, I told him. “Like today, you chose to come here with me. You could’ve done infinite other things, but you picked this.”

He teased back, “You’re blowing my mind.”

We ate with a family of five. The three little girls watched him intently, one with her fork suspended, as Zack scoffed down two plates of food within minutes.

And then we attended a Bible study class on life transition. My church had five classes today, and Zack picked out which class he wanted to attend based on a list that I’d given him.

The class was filled mostly with well-dressed women over age 50. We each talked about our life transitions, which included the birth of grandchildren, switching jobs and moving locations. The class was led by a female pastor who’d authored a book on hope.

At one point while the author spoke, Zack whipped out a switch blade knife and began cleaning out his finger nails.

Still, the ladies, and few gentlemen, treated Zack with respect, answering his questions — “What’s does continuity mean?” he asked, — and looking to him eagerly to contribute. These people are real.

At the end of the class, I gave him some papers the church’s Dignity Center, which helps homeless people get on their feet. “You need to go to community college, so you can learn how to organize your ideas,” I said. He gave me a marker and said, “I don’t remember anything unless it’s on my arm.”

So I took the marker and carefully wrote the church phone number on his arm, along with, “9 a.m. Monday.”

“But what if it comes off?” I said.

“It won’t,” he said. “It would only come off if I washed it.”

“Good bye, my friend. I’ll be here next week. But if I don’t see you .  . .” I trailed off.

We shook hands.

I hope Zack chooses good. I wonder if I’ll see him next week.

You want: Beautiful, memorable photos.  Images that will grab the viewer’s attention, and hold it. A new head shot. A creative Christmas card.

You need: A photojournalist with daily newspaper experience.

Here’s why:

1. Photojournalists don’t make excuses — Things do go wrong, but a photojournalist who has worked for a daily newspaper is trained to do superior work, and quickly. She cannot come back to the office with no photo. The paper is coming out tomorrow, a photo is needed. She is used to operating under pressure.

2. Versatility — What I love about newspaper photographers is that they can do anything. My P-I colleagues often found themselves shooting a natural disaster one day (they all own rubber boots), a concert for the arts section the next day, and then a cake  for the food section the next.

3. Consider your moment captured — How much would you pay to make sure that THE moment of your event is captured forever? This is what photojournalists are trained to do every day. At my own wedding, I knew that I didn’t have to worry about making sure our photographer (and friend) was capturing crucial moments. He was everywhere. When I saw the photos, I was delighted and saw new aspects of my own wedding that I had missed.

4. Photo journalists are problem solvers – Tell me, how do you make a photo of a technology company interesting? As a business reporter for nearly five years, I got to profile some really cool companies — but a lot of times, these companies performed a service that just wasn’t visually interesting. But I rarely worried about this — I knew we’d have a publishable photo for the newspaper because the photographer would think of something I never could have.

5. They’re the best of the best — Newspaper journalism is cutthroat. Thousands of people want to shoot photos for newspapers, particularly in a big city like Seattle. However, just a dozen actually get to do it.  In short, they’ve been vetted.

Following are links to three Seattle-based photojournalists and companies whose work I can vouch for, and that I respect:

1. Stuart Isett — New York Times photographer, freelancer. He also shot my wedding. (Link to his Web page.)

2. Red Box Pictures — Seattle photography studio business started by former Seattle P-I photographers. (Link to company Web page.)

3. Marcus Donner — Newspaper photographer formerly with the King County Journal. He also teaches an excellent class for amateurs — to really help you get the most out of your point-and-shoot, or higher end camera. (Link to his Web site.)

Why did I write this post?

Newspaper photojournalists are best-kept secrets in terms of professionals-for-hire. They often let their photos speak for themselves, but I wanted to give some other concrete reasons beyond pointing out that they take good photos.

I did not get any money or anything from listing the above photographers. Stuart shot my wedding in 2008 and we paid full price, as any professional deserves.

Also, I’d recently read this story about a U.K. couple whose wedding photos were abysmal, and they sued the photographer. It occurred to me while reading it that I never had any such worries. Because I hired a photojournalist.

And finally, all three photos at the top of my home page index were shot by photojournalists. Their names are at the bottom of the page.

Students at my college were big users of AOL Instant Messenger (oh so 2000!), and we religiously updated our away messages. “I’m sleeping.” “I’m writing a paper.” “Sexiled.” (Remember that one?)

After Sept. 11, 2001, during which I was in D.C., I began thinking a lot about my own mortality. For the first time, I realized that I could die unexpectedly. I would think, what if I died from a bomb on the Metro? And the next immediate thought was, “Who would update my away message?”

In 2007, I’d said on Poynter that journalists should be users of social media. (This is back when journalists were actually debating it. Now, it’s a given.) If we are to report on the world we live in, then we have to fully live in it.

But what happens when there’s a technical glitch?

My Facebook profile has been inaccessible for two days.  The company is having some sort of problem, according to this message board thread. And people are getting upset.

One frantic user writes, “OMG!!!! I’m about to lose it…. My birthday is coming and I don’t want to miss my birthday wishes. This is really annoying!!! I’ve been waiting for 5 long and awful days….This is a serious issue. No one seems to care.”

I don’t know this user’s age, but I found her comment adorable and completely honest. Before you judge her, consider this: People communicate now via social mediums, some people exclusively so.

And when the medium goes down, we lose our social.

Spare me talk about the old fashioned way of communicating — face to face and via phone — and how it’s so much better. No it’s not.  And if you think this way, you probably leave too many voicemails. (Voicemail is dead.)

In the capstone thesis class during my senior year of college, one student wrote her paper on social technology, concluding that technology only enhances the social qualities that we already have — thus, social people are even more social online.

To me, it is not an insult to wish someone happy birthday via text message. Go a few years younger than me (I’m 28) and the communication methods are even more drastically different. True story: My college-age younger brother’s home burned down last month. I learned about this via his Facebook status update.

I then communicated the news to another family member via e-mail, who then responded to me the next day via text: “WHY DIDN’T ANYONE CALL ME?” (This 40-something family member only texts in capital letters. We love him. He tries.)

Another example: My birthday this year happened to coincide with my first day as a non-journalist. It was mostly a lonely day of packing for my next adventure, interrupted only by jaunts over to my open laptop to read my birthday messages from all my friends. So great!

The day that I expected to be filled with the radio silence of losing my public voice was instead filled with dozens of messages.  I was no longer a working reporter, but I still had friends. And those friends chose to share via Facebook.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, especially after having moved to a new city six times in the past 10 years. Keeping in touch is so easy, thanks to the social media that have become my lifeline.

There is just one upside to the fact that my Facebook profile is down: It freed me up long enough to write this blog post.

My dad once told me that his favorite poem is in that book. It’s called, “Comfort.”

It’s been years since I thought of that poem, but the verses just popped into my mind as I read Emily Achenbaum Harris’ musings to wish us all a happy first day of fall.

This sounds cheesy, but the following poem is the only one that I have committed to memory, and can recite with any feeling. I’m willing to embarrass myself a little here by sharing, because maybe you’ll get comfort from the poem too:

Comfort
By Robert Service

Say! You’ve struck a heap of trouble –
Bust in business, lost your wife;
No one cares a cent about you,
You don’t care a cent for life;

Hard luck has of hope bereft you,
Health is failing, wish you’d die –
Why, you’ve still the sunshine left you
And the big, blue sky.

Sky so blue it makes you wonder
If it’s heaven shining through;
Earth so smiling ‘way out yonder,
Sun so bright it dazzles you;

Birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging
All their fragrance on the breeze;
Dancing shadows, green, still meadows –
Don’t you mope, you’ve still got these.

These, and none can take them from you;
These, and none can weigh their worth.
What! you’re tired and broke and beaten? –
Why, you’re rich — you’ve got the earth!

Yes, if you’re a tramp in tatters,
While the blue sky bends above
You’ve got nearly all that matters –
You’ve got God, and God is love.

-###-

Obama drew a crowd of 17,000 who stood in the heat for more than two hours to see him speak. His supporters turned out in full force on just a few days notice, sacrificing one of the last few sunny Saturdays left before the Minnesota winter blows in. The Target Center was filled near capacity, despite the fact that Obama’s visit competed for attention with a Twins game at the Metrodome and the University of Minnesota Gophers first game in their new stadium.

The rally was set up to mimic Obama’s 2008 campaign, surrounding the president with thousands of adoring supporters.

What surprised me most, especially after a summer of passionate town hall meetings, was that virtually no protestors entered the arena, preferring to tout their opinions with signs outside.  I did notice one scuffle where someone stood up to protest, but people around him booed him, and he left pretty quietly.

So, while the probamas seemed to arrive in droves, most of the nobamas stayed home (or maybe they were at the 9/12 march on our capital?)

Here are photos followed by a recapture of my live tweets.

I apologize for my low-quality photos. I intend to get a better camera one of these days.

Better photos can be found at Minnesota Independent.

Following are my tweets, which I posted live over the course of five hours. They are in reverse order of when I tweeted them. Think of this as a bullet-point list of observations. (Thanks to those of you who followed along online!)

Everyone outside stadium chanting ‘fired up ready to go!’ nonstop.
39 minutes ago

Guy just got kicked out. Caused a stir in side section.
about 1 hour ago

Obama: mentions starbucks, says take discussion to water cooler, Sbux.
about 1 hour ago

Lady in crowd yells we gotta do something. Obama points at her…repeats it.
about 1 hour ago

Biggest obama fan in the world…he’s so tall!!
about 2 hours ago

Obama speaking…giving love to minn senators.
about 2 hours ago

crowd is chanting ‘yes we can’
about 2 hours ago

Hhs sec kath sebelius is speaking. Warm welcome for her.
about 2 hours ago

Pledge of allegience and anthem. Mics not working!!!!!!!!
about 2 hours ago

A female pastor opens w prayer to god, ”however u imagine him or her to be.”
about 2 hours ago

Someone called it patriotism on a stick. Minnesotans know lot bout stuff on stick.
about 2 hours ago

Got my free american flag and im waving it!
about 2 hours ago

Girl next to me is crying, she’s so excited to see him, she says.
about 2 hours ago

Showing on jumbotrons, president arrives in minneapolis. Crowd going nuts.
about 2 hours ago

I am in section behind podium! People chanting o-ba-ma!
about 2 hours ago

Everyone did the wave like 10 times around the stadium.
about 3 hours ago

Sitting next 2 @si_damonhack at rally. Covers nfl and pga tour for sports illus.
about 3 hours ago

I am in this popstand!!!
about 4 hours ago

Minneapolis police also keeping an eye on things. Love the mounted police!
about 4 hours ago

Looks like the local chapt of the Teamsters are volunteering on full force!
about 4 hours ago

Number of protestors v.Small, under 100 id say. Also some ppl broght books to read in line.
about 4 hours ago

Scene: thousands in line and in arena. Protestors w,signs,horns. Peaceful. Overcast. About 70F humid.
about 4 hours ago

Some socialists promoting single payer, right next to ’stop obamacare.’
about 4 hours ago

Some of the probamas forgot deodorant, i must say.
about 4 hours ago

Was really easy to forget over the summer obamas ability to draw a crowd. Reminded now.
about 4 hours ago

Reminds me of two-hour mob ‘line’ to get into inaugural parade.
about 4 hours ago

Now i’m in huge mass of ppl waiting to go thru security.
about 4 hours ago

Im two blocks away now! Line moving fast!
about 4 hours ago

Ok my lingo’s gonna be: probamas versus nobamas.
about 5 hours ago

Guy saying ‘obama doubled debt!’ probama yells back hey lets start another war!
about 5 hours ago

One lady yells, i want health care for everybody. Protestor yells, dont want 2 pay for urs!
about 5 hours ago

This line is crrrrrrazy!!! I’m so far from entrance!
about 5 hours ago

Wow both sides have come out. Some ppl yelling at each other, but not too meanly.
about 5 hours ago

Line is already five blocks long to get into Target Center! …People started lining up last night at 8 p.m. Wow!
about 5 hours ago from web

Heading out to Obama health care rally in Minneapolis! I’ll Tweet what’s going on, but I can’t see your tweets from my (cheap) cellphone.
about 5 hours ago from web

That’s the big muscle that spans the neck and shoulders, the one that feels soooo good when it gets massaged.

About two years ago, I began getting neck pains so sharp that they brought me tears. The pain would come on pretty rapidly, starting as a dull ache, and within hours, I would not be able to turn my head. I spent my 26th birthday unable to look up, down, left or right. I had to turn my whole body to see the person I was talking to.

The doctor told me that my troubles were the simple result of long hours in front of the computer with poor posture. My trapezius got so tired of having to hold up my head at an angle that the whole muscle would just up and quit. It would seize up, or contract, and not let go for days.

When my HR manager, who doubles as my friend, found out about my pain and its causes, she suggested I file a workman’s comp claim. This felt lame. To me, workman’s comp was reserved for the guy in the hardhat whose foot just got run over by a forklift.

I was a notepad-totin, air-conditioned-office dweller. I was an avid jogger, skiier and hiker. How could a keyboard and mouse get the best of me?

But I filed a claim, and got free physical therapy, (thanks state of Washington!), and learned some things that I will share with you, fellow office dwellers:

• If you don’t sit up straight and use your core muscles — that is, your abdominals and lower back — your bones will change shape to accommodate your bad posture. By the time your hair is gray, you will be permanently hunched over. My physical therapist showed me that I have a lump at the back of my neck because of poor posture and shifting bones, and she said this is common.
• Be conscious of hunching over to read your monitor. Have the monitor raised to eye level.
• My posture was so bad for so long that some of my neck muscles had atrophied. I had to do little neck-ups (like situps with your head) to get those muscles back and working again. Also, my physical therapist massaged some of my neck tendons to stimulate them. I don’t fully understand what she did, but those massages felt like flavor crystals being released into my muscles.
• Yoga is the best way that I have found to undo the damage of long hours of mouse-clicking. I have a prescription for muscle relaxant drugs to get my trapezius to let go after it seizes up. One yoga session works just as well as a muscle relaxant. (This is my Seattle yoga teacher. She’s all about strengthening and getting a fierce workout, yet at the same time, “honoring yourself.” Check her out!)