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WICHITA, Kan. – I'm glad I don't work for TV.

I'm glad I don't work for TV because I didn't have to spend 17 hours outside a home in Southwest Wichita yesterday and today. I only had to spend five, including a break for a drink.

I'm glad I don't work for TV because I don't have to do live updates all the time. I also don't have to send video back to the office, or learn how to operate a large truck. Or sometimes shoot my own video and begin editing it.

I'm glad I don't work for TV because I don't have to look good every day. When you start early, you tend to dress right before you head out the door. But in TV land, that means you could be on the air in 30 minutes. Or you might need to go live 12 hours after arriving at the office. You need to get the story, and also look good doing it. Judging back the quick shot of me on camera this afternoon, I'm ready for neither.

I'm glad I don't work for TV because I don't have to look for visuals to accompany my story. A quick photograph is enough. I don't have to worry about getting enough still shots, background images, on-camera interviews and action to fill a three minute segment.

I'm glad I don't work for TV because I can do my job anywhere. All I need is a notebook (which fits nicely in my back pocket) and a pen (two pens actually, in case the first runs dry). I don't have a "crew" or need to plug in here or there.

Television is so complicated. I'm glad I don't work there.

Related:"The Capture of Jiang Zhendong"

Everybody Down

WICHITA, Kan. – Tornadoes can really mess up a work day.

This afternoon there was a tornado warning.

A supercell thunderstorm formed in the southern suburb of Haysville, and raced toward downtown Wichita. A police officer spotted a funnel cloud – the tight formation that immediately proceeds a touchdown – and the warning was issued.

Meanwhile at the crime desk, I was furiously typing a story about a state agent being assaulted at a smoke shop and then chasing the suspect through North Wichita. Suddenly the entire newsroom stopped working, huddled around the two small televisions and began talking tornado.

"Has it touched down yet?" "Which way is it headed?" "How long is the warning for?"

They talked, and gossiped. Meanwhile I was listening to live weather reports from the Internet, television and radio, trying to get a handle on the situation.

Then an editor came up to me and said, "If they ask you to go downstairs, don't go. Just go over there for a minute or something."

Fair enough. A crime reporter needs to stay on scene in case of an emergency, to report to the public. Even if that means going for a short ride in a tornado. I started typing away: then he was dragged for several blocks near the area of 21st and Grove....

A custodian appeared and shouted, "Everyone. Get to the basement – now!"

Most people did what they were told, shuffling down to the stairs to take shelter. I stayed back. Out of the corner my eye I caught my editor, heading down the door presumably to the basement.

So much for staying the course.




(Postscript:Obviously, the Eagle didn't get blown over by a tornado. The cell didn't even touch down. There's always next week.)

The White Elephant in the Newsroom

WICHITA, Kan. – Today marks the end of an era. Dennis Rader, the BTK Strangler, has agreed not to appeal his conviction in 10 killings during the 1970s and 1980s.

Rader is Wichita's most famous citizen – certainly more people have heard of him than Wyatt Erapp or Kristie Alley (who recently bought property here). His string of murders were terrifying. He stalked young women for weeks and then killed them in their homes. His crime spree went unsolved for years, and generations of young women here didn't know if they would be the next victim.

BTK was captured in 2004 after a dramatic reappearance. He turned out to be Rader, a respectable citizen in nearby Park City. He had a Boy Scout troop. He attended church. Many he came back because he had more time with his children finishing high school.

I knew the basic outline of the case before I arrived here. What I didn't realize was the central role the Eagle played in the drama. Many letters and notices were addressed to the Eagle.

Some of the paper's most talented writers haven't been available this summer because they're busy writing a book on BTK. Their deadline is steadily approaching – October 1 for the final manuscript – and it doesn't seem like the right to ask them to sit back and reminisce. The book, after all, will be available next spring.

Slowly though, stories have trickled out. About the time CNN gave several interviews from the desk where I now sit. The psychic who came here to film a British documentary to crack the case.

I interviewed BTK's pastor for an unrelated story about a missing dog (Don't laugh: that story ran on the front page).

BTK was the biggest story ever to come out of WIchita. It is the biggest story most people in the newsroom will ever cover. It's hard to imagine the newsroom when it was so consumed with this one giant story – terrifying and compelling in equal measure. It's not something I've ever seen in a newsroom, and it's not something I'll necessarily ever see, either. The closest I can get is the occasional stories from the people who worked the case.

When a reporter confirmed the news that Rader is not appealing, a strange mood came over the Crime & Safety section of the newsroom where I now sit.

"This is it, isn't it?" I said.

"Yes, I hope so," a reporter said. "He was a terrible, terrible person."

He still is.

A Long Midwestern Goodbye

WICHITA, Kan. – Mostly Red is beginning the transition to another geographic location. In just two weeks, I'm going to leaving wonderfully flat Kansas for the sights and sounds of my hometown of Albany, New York.

I've been regularly blogging for about five months now, and I've yet to file a dispatch from my hometown. Soon that should all change. I'm looking forward to offering my perspective on the city I know the best, sharing memories and also new experiences in the Empire State.

So don't be surprised if the next two weeks bring more reflective entries and less reactions to the day to day of my life. There are certain topics which have been on the back burner, in a pile of things that I want to cover while in Kansas. With time running out, hopefully I'll actually write about these before it's too late. And perhaps talk a little more about QuikTrip.

Great White Fair

HUTCHINSON, Kan. – On stage was a hypnotist, doing one of those shows where he attempts to make ordinary people lose their inhibitions and cluck like a chicken in public.

"You won't believe what these people will do!" he said.

I scanned the crowd, skeptical. Could these people really let go? I'm pretty sure they could: I saw several of these acts in college. What concerned me a little bit more was the crowd at the Kansas State Fairgrounds: 600 people in this audience, and not a recognizable minority in sight.

To say the fair was very white would be an understatement. This fair could have been the site of auditions for a movie on the Third Reich.

Kansas is a diverse state these days. I spend my lunch breaks switching between authentic tortas, wonderful pho and sometimes passable Chinese food. Minority business ownership is increasing, and people are drawn to the industrial and service jobs locally. What it seems they can't be drawn to, is the state's celebration of its agricultural past.

I went to the fair on a rare day off from the newspaper (I'm scheduled to return on Saturday as part of an assignment, but things wouldn't the same on deadline), expecting to get yet another peak into Kansas life. What I found was an odd fact about the state in 2006: a state where people honor traditions, but only those with a tangible connection to these traditions.



Many of the people at the fair weren't farmers, but had a connection to the field. "My father was a farmer in Dodge City," was a common refrain. This ensures a healthy crowd – attendance was up 10% over last year – but not necessarily a diverse one. I struggled to see more than two or three minorities at the fair, with the obvious exception of Native Americans peddling crap "Western" merchandise.

To be relevant, the fair needs to step outside of its traditional audience. There needs to be more an effort to include the histories and traditions of some of the more recent arrivals to the United States. One shouldn't need to have been in Kansas for eight generations to feel welcome at this great assembly. The New York State Fair, while not perfect, has exhibits on African, Asian and Native American history and culture. There's fun, food and assembly – the same as any other fair. People welcome these exhibits and they're an important part of the audience. If the Kansas fair wants to ensure their future, they'd be wise to do the same.

How to Ace that Interview

WICHITA, Kan. – At the end of the interview, a source sometimes will say as a form of salutation, "Don't make me look bad!"

There's a paranoia that our time together was only for me to gather ammunition to earn my salary and make people look stupid. If only they knew the lengths that many other journalists and I go through in order not to embarrass people.

So far this summer I've omitted juicy but not tactful quotes from sources informing me that "all politicians are crooks," "birds are sacred creatures of nature" and more than one reference to "those Asian people." People I interview – "sources" in journalist speak – are usually nervous when I begin asking questions. Then pause, restate what they've already said, and sometimes give short responses. Then, after about five minutes, they seem to forget that I'm standing three feet from them scribbling down everything they say.

I struggle with these notes when I return to the office. Is my job as a reporter to give the objective truth – even if that means portraying someone in a less than pleasant light? I think the answer is no – most of the time. Since most people are only going to be quoted once or twice in the article, I usually go for a statement that gets at the heart of what they are trying to express. Sometimes I'll supplement that with a particularly insightful or funny comment, but rarely a rude one. People read the paper to be informed. It shouldn't be a place where they can get a few laughs because someone has no tact.

That being said, sometimes it wouldn't be ethical to not report a comment. If I was interviewing Mel Gibson and he said something anti-Semitic, that would have to go in the paper. The same with most politicians if they said something over the line. With people in public office or positions of authority, I'm much less likely to hold a comment because I believe they don't realize how their comments might be observed. These are generally skewered people, who know what they are saying when it comes out of their mouth.

The moral of this little tale is next time you're being interviewed by me or another reporter, take a deep breath before you answer each question. Trust me, I really don't want to have to make you look bad.

Parking Lot Pimpin'

WICHITA, Kan. – For me, an ideal Saturday would be dinner at a trendy restaurant, a drink at a fun bar, a few more at a good club and then some greasy late night snack before crashing at an ungodly hour of the morning. For some people in Wichita, it's a trip to an empty piece of pavement, where they pop their hood, roll down the window and blast some music.

I live across the street (different street than the recent armed robbery) from Kansas' largest flea market. Two days a week, this lot fills halfway with people from the surrounding towns, buying cut-rate used books, jewelry and faux-folk crafts at not terribly good prices. If a strongly-accented caller to my desk a couple weeks back is to believed, they also aren't paying sales tax.

The building's day function doesn't concern me. What does is on Friday and Saturday nights, when dozens of cars return to the lot. They are teenagers mostly, although some are well into their 20s. It starts around 10, and I've seen them there at 3 or 4, when I return from a night out. They play music, sometimes shout at each other, but mostly stand around.

Their scene – I use that term loosely – is impenetrable. Even though these people are roughly my age, they way they point their cars toward each other isn't welcoming. When I pass by them on a late night drunk run to QuikTrip, they don't beckon me over with a wave. Instead they glare, wondering why I am on their piece of pavement.

Now comes news that elsewhere in town, these armies of parking lot vagrants are causing trouble. In Wichita's northeast quarter, a group of nearly 900 people assembled in the Kenmar strip mall parking lot. At around 3 a.m., someone opened fire into the crowd, getting off nearly a dozen shots before disappearing ahead of the police. No one was arrested, and police are now patrolling the area. (One of the Eagle's reporters wrote an excellent article on the situation, which appears in today's paper.)

It should come as no surprise that 1,000 people + alcohol + gang affiliations + Late Nights sometimes equals violence. But I'm not sure whether the police should take any action about the people hanging out in the flea market parking lot. Although I don't think their gatherings seem particularly exciting or welcoming, that doesn't mean they don't have the right to do it.

So parking lot people, you're welcome to your post. Maybe someday you'll find something better to do.

Dispatch from the Other Side

WICHITA, Kan. – Crime has a way of happening right around meal time.

Seconds after I walked back into the newsroom after a tasty sandwich, a call came over the scanner. People were being arrested! Near a school! Many of them! I was on my way, still digesting as I drove my car down Douglas Avenue.

I arrived. Hundreds of students were on the front lawn, playing hackey sack, soccer, chatting on cell phones and just looking aimlessly off into space. In front of the school were the cops: at least six cars, with red-and-blue lights still flashing. Inside many of the cars were teenage boys looking aimlessly into space.

These must be the suspects. These cops were the ones who did the arrests. Now all I needed was someone to tell me those very facts. I went up to a low ranking officer. She was friendly, but told me to wait over on the sidewalk. Not just the sidewalk in general but one tiny square of the sidewalk. It felt like I was the one back in high school.

Then Susan entered my square. She looked in my the eye, shook my hand, and asked me who I was. Right then I knew she was a PR person. Only PR people care about who you are at events like these, and that's because they want to control you. Susan was well put together, as PR people tend to be. In her middle 40s, with dirty blonde hair pushed by into a ponytail, her look was confident, but not too confident, a kind of casual that takes work to pull off. It exudes trust.

The policeman, who I needed to talk to, was taking his time making the statement. He seemed to be more interested in walking between each of the six police cars and seeing if anyone had snuck out. ("Nope? Better go check the first one then.") I decided to put my time on the sidewalk square to good use, and interview Susan, not about the arrests, but her career.

Do PR people make a lot of money? Well, no that much, but more than journalists.

Why'd you leave journalism? Too much time at the office, and as a TV producer, I never got to leave. We had to do all the work, got none of the credit, and still took the blame.

Is PR easy? I still work long hours. This arrest is killing me. I'm going to have to come tomorrow to finish this (On Saturday really? Yes - really.) But we get spring break off every year. That's nice.

Should I stay in journalism?

Before she could answer that one, the officer came over and answered my questions about the crime. Or he told me that yes, those were people that were arrested, and that yes, they were arrested by police officers. And I went back to the office, mostly digested and definitely not a PR person.

A Kansas Life

WICHITA, Kan. – How long have you been here in Kansas? How long have you worked at the paper?

I get asked these questions all the time. When you inquire for a living, people will turn the tables quite frequently. At the beginning, I was cagey about the answer. After all, I didn't want everyone knowing that it was only my third or 14th day on the job. By now, I've gotten to the point where the answer isn't completely embarrassing. Two months or ten weeks doesn't sound half bad. People assume I at least know where the copy machine is by now (although I can't get it to work more than half the time).

I've come to a point now where the idea that I can only live in Blue States or large coastal communities doesn't make much sense. There are places here I'm quite familiar with. The taco stand where I grab a torta pastol. The bar where I get a Wheat Boulevard. All of the QuikTrips where I purchase a variety of strange soda mixes, paid with a credit card. I've been to these places enough times to feel comfortable; like they are touchstones of my daily life.

The same is true with my apartment. It may be dirty, permanently smoky and have walls that let know exactly what my neighbor is viewing on T.V., but the other day I caught myself referring to it in conversation as "home." It was a pretty scary thought, but two months does seem enough time to put down roots. There's a reporter who joined the paper two weeks ago. She seems pretty settled now, already telling funny vignettes about run-ins with strange sources. Maybe I've been here that long, too.

The train of thought is dangerous, because it leads to more questions: Why do I live in such a dump? Why is there frequently violent crime in my neighborhood? I went to college so I could live here - I know people in Albany who didn't graduate high school living in better places.

Finding answers to these questions requires breaking the little illusion I've sometimes fostered in the last few weeks: Wichita isn't really home. In fact, it won't be terribly long before I break out of here. Perhaps the reason that I haven't put down roots in the ways the new reporter at the paper has is that I know that my ticket out of here is visibly on the horizon. I'm not in countdown mode yet, but there's no point in calling myself a Kansan when it's almost time to pack my bags.

The Phone Call I Had To Make

WICHITA, Kan. – Being a journalist means doing uncomfortable things.

We have to stand around as a criminal comes out of a courtroom, badgering him with questions when all he or she wants to do is see their family. We have to rush to the scene of a crime, hoping to see someone arrested. We also will stand outside an event, seeing if anything goes wrong.

Our obligation to cover the news means that we have to do these things, but as a journalist, I can tell you that there are plenty of other things that I'd rather be doing. Like drinking a beer.

Today I had to do something very unpleasant. I was covering a big story. A man murdered his girlfriend and a friend before shooting himself while the police looked on. It was incredibly graphic. I'm glad I didn't see any of the pictures the police took on the scene. It was definitely the most graphic crime that's happened here for months.

I spent the first few hours gathering information from the police. Then I turned to the extensive criminal history of the now deceased criminal. It was very large, including 46 violations inside jail. The next thing to do was talk to the other people involved. While a colleague when to the scene of the crime, I got out the phone book. I wanted to speak to the victim's families, to see if they knew anything.

This is an incredibly painful time for the families. They just found out their young children were unexpectedly murdered. I really, really, really didn't want to bother them, but I would be derelict in my duties if I did not. I picked up the phone and dialed. On the third ring, a woman answered. She wouldn't give her name, only idenifying herself as a family member. I'm pretty sure it was the young woman's mother.

"I think the media knows more about it than we do at this point."

A pause.

"We saw her... off-and-on."

Another pause.

"Her family loved her very much. And I think that's about the extent of our comment."

And then she hung up.
I thanked her and said I was sorry for her loss. I really was.

The Woes of September

WICHITA, Kan. – My last month here in Kansas began with three unpleasant surprises, all related to the calendar and all happening on the first of the month (I was too distressed to write about them yesterday, hence this entry's appearance on the second).

I have my pleasures and vices here in Wichita, the main one being fountain drinks from QuikTrip. I might have been somewhat skeptical about the place several weeks ago, but I've grown to love it. I don't take coffee breaks from work, I take QuikTrip runs. There I grab some concoction made of soda, syrup and frozen drinks and bring it to the counter. Friday, around 11 a.m., I did just that.

"That will be 85 cents," the clerk said. I was confused. I go to QuikTrip a lot. My debit card account is three-quarters under a dollar purchases from QuikTrip. A 32 ounce soda costs 63 cents with tax. I looked over the price wall for confirmation. But there, I saw that the "59 cents" sticker had been removed from the 32 oz. sign. Instead a plain-looking 79 cents was revealed behind it.

The answers came back at the office: QuikTrip lowers the price of its 32 oz. drinks during the summer. And apparently Sept. 1 is the corporate-designated end of the summer.

I came home from work, looking to celebrate the end of a long week with a beer and some "Entourage." I turn on the television, only to find Channel 15 full of static. Channel 16, Cinemax, was also dead. Then I remembered a tiny strip of paper posted on my door a couple weeks ago: "We can no longer offer HBO service. Starting September 1, you will have to make outside arrangements for the channel." And come September 1, it was gone.

I went to the gym to cool off and get rid of some of those QuikTrip calories. After I returned, I finally opened that beer and decided to read a bit. Not in the mood for the latest Paul Theroux book, I cruised over to the Economist Web site. I love the Economist. It's international, serious, funny and a great read. It also costs more than $150 a year, so I can't afford the print edition. I access it through a proxy server at my old school. I enter in my PIN number, nine magic digits that were all-important for four years, and access is granted.

But there's a problem. "That PIN is invalid."

I guess Tufts believes September 1 is far enough after graduation to close the knowledge spicket. I eventually did manage to get on the Web site, but was not happy.

That was my first day in September. I certainly hope better things are coming for the rest of the month. After all, aren't months supposed to taketh and giveth in equal measure?

Miss Penny Xu

WICHITA, Kan. – Rumor has it China is everywhere. You could tell that to the Kansans, but I'm not sure they'd believe you.

Two months on here in America's Heartland, I've had surprisingly few China-related adventures. I haven't written about the country, or any Chinese-Americans in my stories. I really haven't been in any situations where speaking Chinese could remotely be considered helpful. And so, the China has dried up from this blog.

This afternoon, I saw an interesting link while trolling the Web for a potential story: "2006 Wranglers China Tour."

The Prairie Rose Wranglers are a Kansas institution, a performance group comprised of mostly teenaged singers. They perform traditional Western ballads and songs, at a dinner theater 10 miles outside of Wichita. The Prairie Rose singers and unlimited BBQ cost $25, or $22.50 for groups of 10 or more.

They've entertained tens of thousands of people over the past couple decades, although probably not too Chinese. An entertainment agency set out to change that, and took the group over to China last spring. They came, they saw, they sang their tunes in Beijing, Shanghai and Xi'an, and left.

From the coverage in the paper and other local media, you'd think these were the first white people to ever set foot in China.

"I'm the luckiest kid in the whole world," an 11-year-old told our paper. Another child said he was worried about eating two weeks of only Chinese food.

I took issue with a couple things:

1. They claim to be giving the first musical performance on the Great Wall. They could have given the first musical performance of the Great Wall... on the day. But, no, many a people have performed on those steps. Even I sang "Hollaback Girl" on the wall.

2. Their motivation is apparently to meet "the Chinese people." I'm skeptical. Who are you meeting as you zoom through the country in a giant tour with no Chinese?

The whole trip seemed like a giant missed opportunity. Why were these guys stuck in the boring big cities? Why didn't they go to see China's real-life cowboys? Now a joint performance of a Tibetan chanting and doo-wop songs about "Missy Penny Sue' is something I'd pay 25 RMB to see. I might even pay $25, if it included some BBQ.