Poynter has a terrific program called the Beat Academy that provides training and support for beat writers. And although Jack Kerouac died in St. Petersburg, Florida, in 1969, we are not talking about those kinds of beat writers.
Beat reporters — like the cops who used to walk the beat — are the ones assigned to develop sources and cover some of our most important institutions, such as governments, school boards and hospitals.
If you are an aspiring beat writer, Poynter is the place for you. But what if you are an aspiring offbeat writer?
It turns out there is a little nook inside the library, with an image on the wall of an Underwood typewriter, and another of Kerouac. Ok, it’s my Poynter office, an alcove in what I call the assisted living wing of the joint.
It also happens to be the place where the offbeat story is honored and practiced. When the beat writers zig, the offbeat writers zag. When the beat writers cover the Super Bowl, the offbeat writers cover the male cheerleaders on the sidelines of the Granny League.
Even farther from the news are those writers who traffic in the personal essay, such as “Blown Kisses,” published last Sunday by the Tampa Bay Times. As a contributing writer to the newspaper, I embrace a different — and complementary — mission to the daily reporters dutifully covering their beats.
To use a construct offered by Roman poets, the purposes of writing are to instruct and delight. Investigative reporters know how to instruct. It is my job to delight, to offer relief, whimsy, humor and consolation at a moment in history saturated with disease, catastrophe and disinformation. There is a public response to negative daily coverage that is called news avoidance. It’s a real thing, and it’s dangerous for democracy. Offbeat stories — like comic strips and crossword puzzles — are rewards for readers for hanging in there.
I hope you enjoy “Blown Kisses” as much as many of my readers say they did. I assure you it did nothing to improve their lives. Or did it?
***
I find myself attracted to novels with short ambiguous titles, such as “The Plot” or “The Catch.”
In that spirit, let me call attention to the title of this column: “Blown Kisses.”
Most people know how to blow a kiss, a gesture I use with little children or, now and then, as a mild act of flirtation.
That is the literal meaning of “blow.” But “to blow” something also means to get something terribly wrong. “You really blew that one, Mister” is not something I’m eager to hear.
My story, a personal one, involves a kiss that I blew. It will be up to you to judge my actions.
(Courtesy: Roy Peter Clark)
Return with me to a Sunday morning some years ago. Karen and I had just attended Mass, then stopped for a treat at a coffee shop once called The Banyan. I was a regular there, so much so that the owner put my name on an orange coffee cup. Actually, she wrote not my real name but a nickname she had bestowed upon me: Go-Go. She once overheard me talking to a friend about go-go dancers.
The Banyan was a popular place, so I found myself in the back of a line with four or five customers ahead of me. At the register stood a familiar barista. I’ll call her Candice — because that’s her real name.
When you are a regular at a coffee shop, you make friends with the owners and the workers. You learn their names, and you wind up seeing them more often than some members of your family.
Over time, I came to learn that Candice was super-intelligent, funny, irreverent in the best way and a great single mom to a spritely daughter. At slow moments, we could chat about families, politics, culture, writing and St. Pete. We became friends.
When she looked up from the register (remember, I’m near the back of the line), I smiled and, without much thinking, blew her a kiss. In a charming gesture, she pantomimed snatching it from the air. Then she stuffed it into her back pocket.
I was not prepared for what would happen next. A female voice, familiar but also slightly frightening, split the air, like lightning from a clear sky. “So what am I? The invisible wife?!?”
It was Karen, who had been gazing at the pastry case while I was standing in line to order.
Let’s hear it again: “So what am I? The invisible wife?!?!” (Notice I have added another exclamation point.) This was not the normal voice of my wife. This was the Medusa, snake-hair writhing, eyes blazing, ready to turn me to stone.
Candice heard this complaint. With exquisite equanimity, she reached into her back pocket, pulled out the invisible kiss and tossed it to Karen.
Karen surprised me when she caught it — and shocked me when she threw it on the ground and stomped on it as if she were killing a roach.
In short, first I blew it, then I really blew it.
I have Karen’s permission to share this story, but only if I tell you that the event in question did not pose an obstacle to what is now 52 years of marital bliss.
I conclude, dear readers, with this question as I empanel you as judge and jury: Was it a good blow or a bad blow?
