Part 1 of a series on "Rituals" that take place in and around Harrisburg. This article will appear in Issue 4.
Blues Jam
Words by Daniel Webster, Photos by Anela Bence-Selkowitz
Every Thursday at a bar not far from Harrisburg International Airport, a crowd of pickers, kickers, and very few city slickers gather at Champion’s Bar in Highspire, Pa. “Damn right, I got the blues,” is plastered across a man’s hoodie, and that pretty much explains this late week ritual. The blues jam kicks off at 8 o’clock not-sharp. Run by the Blues Society of Pennsylvania, the jam got started in more humble beginnings at a bar in Steelton. Most people warmly remember it as “a shack overlooking the train tracks” or talked about the body of a race car serving as the wrap-around bar or Sonny who ran the bar. Champion’s Sports Bar is decidedly more upscale, featuring a well-lighted stage, an ample area for the swing-blues (a type of swing dance), and a pool table lies on its side to make room for family-style tables, constituting the “VIP” section of blues members.
The jam itself is unique in that we have professional blues players in central Pennsylvania, not really known to the greater public as a breeding ground for soulful sounds. But more curious is the operational set-up. Marianna Doherty, President Ex-Officio of the Blues Society, said “most blues nights around the country have a house band,” but “we have the sign-up board.”
The stained white board is gridded, the rows a list of categories from vocals to guitar to harp, the columns marked 1-6 with the host in the upper left hand corner, a high-ranking blues society member. This particular week was Don Johnson’s turn. Yep, that’s his name. Don is a venerated guitarist in the area, who is one of the only members who makes his living off the blues.
The host master is charged with grouping the musicians and vocalists on teams, the sole captain of sorts. It’s a crucial and stressful tasks, because some musicians work better than others, and that was confirmed after almost every interviewee described blues night as hit-or-miss.
Juan Meijas, the jam’s only and long-standing flutist, used an apropos analogy. “It’s like pick-up basketball. Sometimes people want to work together as a team, other times they don’t.”
Certainly, its equal opportunity to strut your stuff or showcase your wares, even, whether on-stage or taking part in the dancing. And Juan’s analogy makes more sense as an audience member. The game is on-stage, the dancers are like less-obnoxious cheerleaders, and the fans, mostly the graying population, sit back at the family-style tables catching up, critiquing the playing, but what’s very obvious is that everyone is enjoying themselves.
The bands play on until midnight, however, the crowd starts to wean away at 10 p.m. After all, it is a week night.
You've been Kinfolked or Why so Smug Independent Magazines?
In a flash, Local waxes and wanes. It’s waxing time, another grind-out weekend with a few newbies and old-heads. While I often just allow our wandering souls to well, wander, we often get to commune over coffee or in front of our screens. I’d like to admit that these chats are always interesting intellectually, but more often, they spill into comedic commemorations of the day or year, maybe too tongue-in-cheek for our humble blog.
Sometimes, we also watch Kinfolk videos or consider spinoffs for the fast-rising “Vogue for hipsters.” Chinfolk, Sinfolk, Winfolk, Finfolk (don’t ask), Blingfolk, Ginfolk, Cringefolk, Burr-lin-folk (again don’t ask). It usually takes on an air of an all-out lampoon with suggestions of videos we should undertake to make fun of such an artsy-fartsy periodical, but sometimes we scratch greater questions like, “Why are indie mags so smug?”
First, off, the vague "independent magazine" label is basically anything that is non-traditional, and we are all complicit in our uppity ways, even here at Local. Most indies won't compromise their core being, because small presses are gifted with a beautiful, niche concept that, if lucky, people will latch onto in sustained numbers (e.g. Kinfolk). Most of the time, we fail. I’m not so interested in telling those tales, as I am the thematic movement of the independent magazine trend, in general: brand-focused, design-centered, and esoteric (purposefully or unintentionally wrought in that manner).
Because of the legitimate design beauty found in new independents, there is this one-sided conversation that seems to indicate this uptick in high-end and well-designed magazines is inherently good and/or impressive given the economy for publications and the larger macro move away into digital. And it is. My experience though in both reading and reviewing these publications, to both improve my own mag and stay current, is that I’m only mildly impressed by the anti-gloss movement as I call it. Nice photos, check. Cool theme, check. Writing, fair-to-middling. What is it that’s missing though?
Perhaps, it’s the prevailing idea that to replace one trend for another, gloss for thick recycled newsprint (non-gloss)—good on the recycled part—is a step up. That's piddling in minutiae though. It’s something more abstract. Like soul or missing an authentic connection to place and people (that's a bit smug even). Now, that might seem like an abstract concept but it isn’t. What I see in magazines like the aforementioned is this ogling “over the creative process,” a semi-exultation of design and expression, and a conflation of calling something "a balanced simple lifestyle" for that of the means to live in a way where you can afford to call yourself a foodie enthusiast.
My experience in the past two years of making Local is that most people don’t know what the hell you're talking about. It’s great that there’s a push happening in periodicals to talk about sustainable lifestyles, making clothes and objects closer to home, making magazines less flimsy and more substantial, and focusing on celebrity that’s not celebrity in the traditional sense, but there’s this other side of America that’s struggling for attention and resources.
Bringing beauty to an ugly world is good, but there’s an ugly world out there that needs beauty. This is what Local tries to navigate, sometimes well, sometimes not-so-well. Most of the former examples just don’t, partially because it’s their mission and partially because they’re con-tent with their self-obfuscation. It’s warming, protective, and comforting to know that others will agree with you wholeheartedly and buy into this "lifestyle." Yet, as independents, I believe we have a larger obligation to society. We write for the tired reader or viewer, even if we’re tired.
Stay warm,
Daniel Webster Jr.
P.S. Here are some magazines that I'd love to emulate one day. They blend design and stories in a sophisticated and down-to-earth manner.
New School
Boat Magazine: Probably the periodical closest in likeness to our own, minus the most recent launch of Collective Quarterly, which, no comment. Boat's editor, Erin Spens wrote this very cool letter recently that encapsulates a lot of similar thoughts to my own at this time.
This Land is a semi-monthly large-format newspaper that brings long form, literary journalism to the community level. It’s like when Warren Buffett and his love for newspapers meets Woody Guthrie lyrics. Don’t know if that made sense.
Narratively is this grind-it-out digital news presence that tells great human interest stories out of NYC. Noah Rosenberg’s team is super-committed and produce rich, weird, and heartbreaking tales every week. Their “about” is below.
Narratively slows down the news cycle. We avoid the breaking news and the next big headline, instead focusing exclusively on untold, human-interest stories—the rich, intricate narratives that get at the heart of what a place and its people are all about.
Old School
Orion Magazine: The classy and classic Orion is one of my personal favorites. Check out their mission here.
The Sun was started by Sy Syfransky 40 years ago and they commemorated this anniversary with a great interview with the man behind the legendary publication.
Swiped this right from their website:
The Sun is an independent, ad-free monthly magazine that for nearly forty years has used words and photographs to invoke the splendor and heartache of being human. The Sun celebrates life, but not in a way that ignores its complexity. The personal essays, short stories, interviews, poetry, and photographs that appear in its pages explore the challenges we face and the moments when we rise to meet those challenges.
"The splendor and heartache of being human"—what a great line.
Today marks the first anniversary of Local's presence in the world. While there's much to be said about our progress and our recent release of Issue 3, Asbury Park, N.J., frankly that sounds like boring self-promotion. My attitude toward the glut of masquerading oneself as a vintage, Made in America brand is wearing thin, and the words associated to making this a successful venture, "marketing" and "social media presence" are almost bile-inducing. That doesn't mean I'm not culpable to throwing around these terms to fit in with all the entrepreneurial "makers" and "crafters" and "indie publishers". I just find them rather unspecific and gilded in this notion that the hard work is all spent in snazzy buzz words— "shares", "engaged users", "traffic", "user interface" (oh yeah, I know all of them)—and less to the actual earnest service or product that small businesses provide.
Ours happens to be the old-fashioned printed word and soon an app—the new shovels of our generation or something like that. This tale, however, will be less about "content" and more about "contexualizing" the experience of running a small business.
***
As I finished a long work day of shoveling magazines out of my car to potential stockists in Asbury Park and Red Bank, N.J. with some success (see my piece on slinging magazines here, "link and retweet"), I began to drive back to my friend's house, where he has let me sleep on a mat dozens of times since July (Thank you Silverman family). However, about 10 minutes from my destination I had this strange, neanderthalic feeling creeping from my gut at the red light in Allenhurst, N.J. that I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but before I released my primal power, history spake to thee.
"Yeah, he used to scream at the top of his lungs on the way home from work in the early days," said my dad, referring to my grandfather or “Pappap” as we called him.
"Isn't that awkward," I asked, a teenager at the time.
"Well, it’s really tough starting a business,” said dad.
My grandfather was beginning a general law firm in Brownsville, Pa. While the actual business is of some interest, since most general law firms are going the way of the dodo bird in favor of specialized legal fields, what is more interesting is that I knew Pappap to be extremely tight-lipped and laid back around his grandkids. This kind of flagrant anger management was hard to visualize from the velour jumpsuit wearing patriarch, who wouldn't even talk in the car while driving others, calling it an unnecessary distraction.
But what could possibly have driven him to howl and break this code of silence in his vehicle. My only guess is the questions and the growing task list from the day's work began to eat away at him, just like mine.
"When am I going to get some help?" "How do I grow my business?" "When is my next paycheck going to come in?" "How am I going to afford food next month?" "Will I have to sell my car and go back to hitch hiking to work?" "Will I have to take an extra job?" "Should I just work for the government?"
Sometimes the questions are less heavy but they begin to pile and pile, and meanwhile you have bills to pay, queries to respond to, ledgers to keep, files to maintain, people to make happy, critics to respond to ever so diplomatically, and more and more and more. Soon, the only response is "aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh" like the Hulk unleashing his rage onto the world.
Certainly, the car seems like an appropriate place for this action. The annoyance of driving causing increased tension, the subconscious feeling of being trapped in an inescapable metal shell, and the dueling notion that privacy will prevail and no one will see your silliness of carrying out this nonsensical exclamation point to symbolize the running of a small business--complete madness.
But you know what (as I sigh), something in those screams helps me gather inspiration and resolve from Bob Webster: the trial lawyer, a stutterer as a kid who overcame that tic, the son of a barber and hair dresser, and the beneficiary of a G.I. Bill, and eventually one of the most successful lawyers and businessman in western Pennsylvania. His grit provided for his three sons and future generations, the founder of a now 60-year-old general law firm, and people respected him greatly for that relentlessness and his devotion to friends, family, colleagues, and his employees. He left behind his example, which was evident during his funeral 15 years ago when 3,000 people showed up at his viewing.
So even if I run out of money, have to hitch hike, scrap for food, or can't turn this into a successful venture, I can always grab a pillow or hop in the car and just let out a scream for the ages. Thanks Pappap!
Happy Anniversary Local!
From your stressed but grateful Editor-in-Chief.
Note to readers: that's my grandfather, not me.
I wish this were me. That's my grandfather before starting the business. I'm not sure why he's holding a cane.
Salesmen can be beggars, Editor-in-Chiefs can't be choosers (or can they?)
Some may believe that being an editor-in-chief of an indie publication is rather cool. You sit around with your editorial team making pour-over coffees, searching for your print rivals, realizing their mistakes, and guffawing over those mainstream drags, who are totally misguided about the future of print. The occasional cigarette break turns into a cracking of one or two microbrews at lunchtime, that then inspires an idea that couldn’t be lifted by a Boeing engine.
Oh, in a perfect world, I guess.
There’s other duties to attend to besides a story budget, locating the best of the best writers, and reviewing, editing, and sizing down our next issue’s content. For the past month or so, my newsie cap has come on, traveling city-by-city (four to be exact) in order to sell Issue 2 to various stores around the east coast. “Get your Local here,” which happens to be my aging Toyota Corolla, chock-full of cardboard boxes, 26 lbs. per, filled to the brim with cultural curiosities about Roanoke, Va. But it’s become a sort of dog-walking obligation, perhaps even a rite of passage, and I just wanted to give minor insights, emphasis on the minor, to our readers and dare I say, my rivals alike, who may want to empathize or laugh at this 1,500 mile tour de force I logged the past three weekends.
Independent publishers or editors-in-chiefs who are reading this are either immediately pissed that I would go through such vagaries (get a distributor bro) or nod in knowing. While I am looking into a distributor, first, there are the bangs or busts of cold calls, unanswered emails, and consignment deals. What I’ve found, however, is that business owners are much more receptive, in some cases, to seeing the magazine with its owner, like an artist with his/her portfolio. There’s some general pre-planning, which is all very boring and involves mapping and not getting side swiped while looking down at an iPhone map (I’m looking at you Philadelphia). Beyond that, it’s personal preference and the age-old pitch.
Walking in to the selected store—one I’ve only laid my eyes on via Yelp or grainy website photos—is the biggest thrill, scoping out voyeuristically if our magazine indeed belongs in this place. I usually shuffle around for about ten minutes, looking for the following sure fire signs of a successful mag shop.
They carry national titles like Sun Magazine and Orion or foreign titles like Boat and Huck. Each combine strong narrative with timeless design, and that is something Local is always working toward.
Curated shops also do the trick, those with neither a glut of magazines strewn about or too little of a stock that promotes only a certain niche brand of magazines (e.g. lifestyle).
Business owners or employees who gives two shits about you. I honestly, at this stage, want to be stocked in places with workers who care about the print product. You can tell immediately if an employee is disengaged, perplexed by what you are asking of them, or too pretentious to be dealing with what they determine is a low-brow salesman, which might be my fault. See next paragraph.
I’m wearing my standard, everyman attire: black shirt, Levi jeans, black tennis shoes while carrying a nylon Banana Republic messenger bag. This, I hope, hits the sweet spot of dress codes in this business: not too bookish, not too disheveled, and casual. I root around for a magazine or a trinket, take it to the counter, and while being checked out, I start my pitch, which goes something like this:
“Hey, so I run this magazine called Local Quarterly (drop the magazine on said counter ever so gently), which looks at micro-cultures in America through the lens of one small city per issue (that’s my highbrow take). Think you may be able to stock it here?”
From there, it’s a variety of reactions, ranging from complete puzzlement due to my pitch or a simple, “Sure, why not? Fill out a consignment form.”
The more upscale, boutique stores usually reply with, “A buyer will need to look at this first. I’m sure you understand.” God, how bile-inducing. You see, in the most diplomatic way possible, I just want to tell them I drove 290 miles one way without A/C to save on gas, specifically for the purpose of being in their store. And I just purchased something from you, my inner and innocent manipulation thwarted by the ole pass off to the buyer. Oh, well.
Others, however, are receptive, grateful, excited by a living human being dropping off a magazine who indeed worked on this product, moonlighting with a dedicated team, etc. This is the empathetic small business owner knowing the trials of a peer. These people I thank too much. My desperation seeping out, I cut off my third or fourth “thanks” and leave, my products all grown up and ready for new eyes, fresher eyes.
Neurotically, I turn around, almost instantly, then trudge on, ready for the next inspecting or indifferent individual.
All the while I’m thinking about the invoice I need to prepare, trying to locate Shop X on my outdated iPhone map, sweating the good sweat, the self-imposed perspiration of an independent publisher. Glorious? No. Satisfying? Sometimes. Necessary? Absolutely.
A few shops I really, really liked:
Politics & Prose: Two stories of fantastic books with a small café located in the basement floor. Readings daily. A small but well selected groupings of local, national, and international titles. Seth, the buyer, was real easy to work with and took our magazines on the spot, although I believe their distributor is SpeedImpex.
Avril 50: Magazines, lots of them, coffee and cigarettes. Writer’s paradise. The bare necessities. Magazine cave. It’s in University City, right in the hubbub of Drexel and UPenn near the well-regarded White Dog Café. John, the owner, was great to deal with, not on the phone, but in person. Treat yourself to this place. If he doesn’t have the magazine you’re looking for, I’d be surprised, but he’ll find it if you ask.
Durham Regulator: Great independent bookstore with superb customer service. Right along a nice strip of stores in downtown Durham, a slight way from the Duke University campus. The magazine section is off to the left when you walk into the store. Not prominent, but it’s home to a solid grouping of consumer and cultural periodicals.
Diversity Through the Decades with Roanoke's Chinese Sister, Pearl Fu.
The 1984 paranormal farce "Ghostbusters" is an eccentric American classic. A slime-fighting trio, played by Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, and Harold Ramis, takes to the streets in search of specters. Though plot details tend to blur, the theme song remains popular. It starts out by asking two flippant, yet fundamental, civic questions: If there's something strange in the neighborhood, who ya gonna call? If there's something weird, and it don't look good, who ya gonna call?
Every city develops its list of important responders: police, EMTs, local journalists, maybe even a few lovable parapsychologists. In Roanoke however, a petite, soft-spoken Chinese native tops the call list. Her given name is Dragon Precious Pearl. As per Eastern tradition, her maiden name Dragon falls before the first. Roanoke knows her best by her married name, Pearl Fu.
Dragon Pearl—her family retracted "Precious" after she insisted on attending an American college—runs Local Colors, a multicultural service and education organization. Local Colors promotes cross-cultural understanding through classes, networking, advocacy, exhibits, and festivals. Downtown Roanoke Inc. (DRI) started the project nearly 23 years ago to draw more folks downtown. In 1995, DRI officially handed it over to Fu.
Adorned in vibrant Chinese Yi garb, Fu snickers about the first DRI festival she attended. There wasn't much to see beyond four table displays representing the city’s range of nationalities. She remembers haranguing the event planners: "There have to be more than four countries in Roanoke!" As she slightly shakes her head, the sun catches strings of gold beads dangling from her headpiece. Fu's traditional outfit, which she often wears out to public events, features black patches with roses and other patterns that mix neon greens with hot pinks, crimsons, silvers, and yellows.
DRI's scrawny fair inspired the door-to-door (volunteer) salesperson in Fu. She quickly recruited immigrants for the next fest by eavesdropping for accents on the street. Today, more than 15 years after taking the reins, she keeps on the prowl. "No one's safe," she teases. I ask to hear her volunteer pitch. "I'll let you guess until you move to Roanoke and I want you! You won't know what to expect," she says. "You know how many countries [represented] we have now? One hundred 'n' three!" she exclaims from the edge of her chair. Fu's Parkinson's disease curbs her mobility but doesn’t prevent her from smiling.
Roanokers relish the Local Colors Festival, which has transformed into a flashy foods, arts, and music fest in Elmwood Park. While many residents only know the organization for its annual bash, Local Colors is busy year-round. "I'm here every day, but it doesn't stop here," says Fu. "I go home, and I'm on the computer until midnight."
The Jefferson Center, a refurbished '20s high school, houses Fu’s office as well as a theater and other civic group headquarters. The atrium’s lofty arches and full-service bar make it a desirable party spot, while Fu's down-and-around-the-hall base is speckled with knick-knacks, family photos, and a fanciful dragon kite pinned to the ceiling. When Fu isn't here, she's speaking at schools, accepting awards, or moderating interracial disputes by phone. She works with police officers on cultural sensitivity and recruitment, she attends NAACP events, she advocates for paperless immigrants in court, she volunteers for Jefferson Center events, she organizes inclusive caroler groups in the winter. A 2008 Roanoke Times article declares her "Fubiquitous."
"Working is my medicine," says Fu. Thirteen years ago, she was diagnosed with Parkinson's, and just five years ago, doctors found cancer in her colon. She remembers the diagnosis: "The doctors didn't think I was going to make it, but they don't know me. I wasn't ready to go." Fu says she believes that her determination and oatmeal intake, indeed a bowl of oatmeal every day, wiped out the disease. Today she’s cancer free. "I would have dreams of my dead relatives. I told them I wasn't ready to come yet—still lots to do!"
This fighter mentality runs in the family. She credits her warlord grandfather, Long Yun (Dragon Cloud), for her perseverance in health and work. He governed Yunnan Province from 1927 to 1945, dodged assassination by a communist leader, and joined one of the largest left-wing political groups in China. "His people admired him, and he followed his heart no matter what," says Fu. "I feel like I follow his legacy."
When Fu moved to Roanoke in 1986, a friend warned her that Roanokers wouldn’t be friendly because of her background. She quickly recalls a work "assignment" involving a Taiwanese patient at Carilion Roanoke Memorial Hospital. He was shot during a burglary in his Danville home, a two hour drive from Roanoke, and had to be flown in for advanced care. The man's wife and children stayed at the Ronald McDonald House while he recovered. "She didn't know anybody here. She needed to be consoled by Buddhists. I had to find a Buddhist who spoke Taiwanese," says Fu. After a good bit of networking, she got in touch with a Buddhist organization in Richmond. They came everyday to talk with the family. As the goodwill story circulated among Taiwanese natives, Fu remembers, among all the gratitude, racial skepticism: "Why are you helping a Taiwanese if you're a Chinese minority?"
After spending more time in Roanoke, Fu learned that Jewish people weren't allowed to live in her neighborhood in the '50s, and that up until the early '60s, the railroad tracks separated black and white Roanoke. As a Bohemian-of-sorts, she was shocked. "I never knew there was such a big distinction," she says. "I just saw everyone together."
About 20 years ago though, Fu encountered a group of local extortionists. "I call them the Chinese mafia in Roanoke," she says softly. The group would sell new immigrants property, say for restaurant space, and demand cash. Without any checks or documents, they would go back and force additional payments. "The victims had no one to go to, until they heard about me," she says. Eventually after countless calls to police, interactions with the FBI, and multiple threats on her life, the "mafia" members left Roanoke.
Others suggest that Fu’s most time-consuming projects—Local Colors Festival, authentic food tastings, and parades—don’t address complex diversity issues. John Reburn, downtown revival buff and owner of Roanoke's Appalachia Press, says, "In one way it’s attention-getting and approachable. In another way it could be a stereotype. It becomes a Disney-esque performance." Reburn commends Fu as a trailblazer for cultural awareness but believes Roanoke should ask more from these events. "The younger generations are ready-wired with a much better sense of diversity [than before]," he stresses. "The Local Colors event seems old and needs to be reinvented."
The overriding sentiment, however, is that Fu has definitively altered Roanoke’s sluggish diversity initiative. Officer Nicholas Comas, a recruiter at the Roanoke Police Academy, can attest to her efforts. In January 2012, Fu helped organize the first Community Diversity Summit, where immigrants had a chance to mingle with off-duty officers. "Our citizens come from all walks of life. To be able to informally meet people on this level is a great thing," says Comas. The 75-80 attendees representing 15 countries heard testimonies from minority officers and participated in a community-building activity. If Fu hadn't been so well-connected, says Comas, they would have never drawn such a large crowd.
Persistent face-to-face contact is what makes Fu such a recognized figure. NAACP President Brenda Hale calls her "my Chinese sister." Mayor David Bowers considers her Roanoke's "unofficial ambassador of goodwill." He laughs about a famous '60s news headline: Roanoke Welcomes Students from Wisconsin. "Diversity in Roanoke used to mean getting all these Yankees to come down South!" says Bowers. In 2011, the Library of Virginia named Fu a Woman in History for years of civic leadership.
Though Fu's list of compliments and honors continues to expand, her genial ego remains intact. She describes how her introverted husband supported her for 10 years without pay. "He puts up with me," she jests. "He's the complete opposite of me! Very quiet, very smart, very organized, and very serious." She goes on to praise the Board of Directors and all the volunteers she's stockpiled throughout the years, including handsome event escorts to help her get around. "Have you ever heard of this in the North? Arm candy?" Fu laughs. "Because of my immobility, I need someone to lift me up."
After decades of doing the heavy lifting in this community, it only seems fair that she gets to be carried around. And while Pearl "who ya gonna call" Fu could go on and on about her events and unpredictable casework, she pauses after two hours and says, "I just wish I could move faster."
I had to write a speech back in the 90s for my fifth grade class on the topic: “I’m the Mayor Now, and this is My New Plan.” It was meant to be a bold vision for the city of Dallas straight from the mouth of a babe, and I spent a week or so trying to write something that sounded like all the things I saw on television — soaring rhetoric about kids and jobs and potholes to boot.
Unfortunately, I forgot half of the speech when I had to say it in front of my classmates, and have forgotten the other half in the 15 years that have passed since, but those memories rushed back to my mind yesterday when the MBAxAmerica team talked with Bob Filner — Freedom Rider, former congressman, and current Mayor of San Diego.
Mayor Filner is as inspiring (and as wicked smart) as his resume would lead you to believe. He was one of the first young people to hop on a bus and head down to Mississippi to experience the civil rights struggle first-hand, and stayed in jail for two months because, “If you think something should be changed, it’s your responsibility to actively pursue that change.”
The mayor’s also pretty busy, so he didn’t waste any time before he told us what MBAxAmerica should help change:
“Every mayor in the country has to do something to support small business and entrepreneurs, but there’s not a lot of guidance or a mechanism to share successes, challenges, and best practices. Why don’t you give us a checklist of things that we can actually do so we don’t have to just keep talking about it?”
It’s hard to say ‘no’ to Bob Filner, so we’ve decided to accept the challenge.
Now I realized 15 years ago that I don’t have a brilliant plan to implement as mayor, but MBAxAmerica isn’t about any one person having all the answers. It’s about creating solutions together — in businesses, city halls, coffee shops, and campuses across the country. So we’re all mayors now, and this is our new plan.
We owe Mayor Filner that checklist by the end of the summer, so let’s get to it. Will you help us?
Shoot us a note at [email protected] and see our Indiegogo campaign here to join the movement.
Local Dialect is Local Quarterly's online, submissions-based magazine. We at Local are always on the lookout for exciting, heartfelt stories from towns and cities around the country, and we'd love to hear yours. Submit to Local Dialect to share your home town's narrative with the world (and see your work published along the way). Learn more at localdialect.us. Finalists will be posted on our blog at the end of each month!
Roanoke Journal 1/18/13 Iago, the ominously-named snowstorm, is blanketing the southern rail town we are reporting from this week. We call it The Local Plague. Everywhere we go, nature's wrath seeks out. Lots of weather has spit at us over the past year: rain, hail, sleet, and now, snow. This is my hollowed attempt at earning some hardboiled journalist cred. So Roanoke, Virginia. No, not the Lost Colony, the the city of, even. We jumped from a town of 5,000 to one of 97,000. You might assume we have no protocols in place to choose our next locale, and that would be mostly true. So I'm going to make them up right now. How we pinpoint our next, great, overlooked, flag-bearing, American Town? 1) Population must not exceed 100,000 people. We don't count Metropolitan Population Statistics, which incorporates a bunch of burbs--just the town or city inhabitants--the true locals. 2) If friends and free lodging are nearby, we count that as a plus. 3) Currently, due to financial mumbo-jumbo, we can only afford to stay on the east-coast. We really want that edict to be reformed soon. 4) We value names. Jersey Shore,Pennsylvania. That was an etymological screw ball. And Roanoke, Virginia. You might think it's the Lost Colony, but you would be ahistorical. 5) We scout. Before we choose the destination, my most competent Art Director and I spend a weekend with the prospect. 6) We take submissions from our team. Do you want to know the short-list from last time? Sure, why not. Peekskill, NY, Chestertown, MD, and Roanoke, VA. We'd love to crowd-source this process when we're solvent. 7) We don't look at the weather. Clearly. And in other news, I'm off to meet with a host of amazing Roanoke-based writers and photographers who will be contributing for this issue. Our team has swelled from 3, as of last night, to 14. The Star City is shining on us brightly. Aiming well, DW
