Wednesday, March 31, 2004
My obit
This post is a bit narcissistic, but so is the entire concept of having a blog, so fuck it, don't hold back, celebrate me.
I have a minor obsession with the obituaries of storied journalists. Some would call it a morbid obsession but I argue that said obituaries are simply inspiration to leave a good legacy. Well, my good friend and fellow blogger JoeJa picked up on my obit page reading habit and wrote me an homage. Two things come to mind reading it: in this world of company drug testing, what is this Puritanical stigma attached to recreational prescription drug use? Don't judge me, you bastards. Also, I don't have the slightest idea why a Guatemalan rebel group would call themselves The Cats of Jesus. Joe went to Catholic school, maybe he knows.
Despite the damage to my crown jewels within the piece, I was actually touched. Thanks, Joe. Here it is, get back to me in fifty years and we'll see how accurate it turns out:
Heath “Bulldog” Druzin, 72, a pioneering newspaper publisher and
conflict correspondent, died Sunday at his home in the South African
countryside of complications from Turkish Fever.
Druzin was born in New York City and moved to Palo Alto, CA at the age
of 10. He became involved in journalism in high school and continued
his involvement through college while earning a double major in History
and Political Science at UC Davis.
Druzin cut his teeth during a brief stint at The Union in Grass
Valley, CA which led him to a 2-year internship as a crime reporter at
the Advocate in Baton Rouge, LA.
“The rough streets of Baton Rouge prepared me for the complete chaos
of Guatemala and the lawless post-Communist China,” Druzin said in 2027
in a Washington Post article.
But it was Druzin’s daring career move after Baton Rouge from which he
took the most pride. He and subsequent photojournalist-turned
publishing mogul Joe Jaszewski started what was then a risky, radical
proposition: an independent newsweekly with serious, thoughtful stories
and photographs in small but booming Yolo County, CA.
Within a year of launch, Yolo Weekly had grown from a 24-page, 10,000
circulation paper to 86-pages and 50,000 copies every week. In 2005 The
New York Times Magazine heralded the venture as “The future of local
journalism.” Druzin and Jaszewski graced the Cover of Editor and
Publisher Magazine 10 times in 10 years, starting 8 more weekly
tabloids throughout the west.
The two hit a trend as it was just taking off. Soon, hundreds of
serious community newsweeklies featuring the now-standard lengthy
feature and 5-picture essay popped up throughout the county. At a
bankruptcy hearing for the once mighty Gannett Corp., then-chairman
Douglas McCorkandale wined “If only we had listened.”
Just 34 and already a multi-millionaire managing the news operations
of his 8 newspapers, Druzin eventually grew bored of the newsweekly
business. Even his three Pulitzer Prizes, the most ever for a weekly
publication, couldn’t keep him stateside.
“It’s been a great run for Joe and I,” Druzin said to the LA Times in
2015. “But my dream has always been to cover the world hot-spots and
now is the time to do it.”
Druzin’s distaste for American corporate journalism led him to eschew
offers from the New York Times, Portland Oregonian, and Seattle Times.
The Financial Times of London hired him and immediately sent him to
Guatemala, where US forces under the command of neo-conservative
president Karl Rove were flushing out pockets of resistance of the
militant Catholic rebel group knows as “Los Gatos De Jesus.”
It was in the streets of Guatemala City where Druzin suffered shrapnel
wounds while covering an LGDJ offensive into US controlled territory in
2016. An American grenade exploded in an alley where Druzin was
bunkered down with three LG rebels. In the attack he lost eyesight in
his right eye, three fingers from his right hand and, tragically, his
right testicle.
From his hospital bed in Houston Druzin penned the famous “Against
Neo-Colonialism” manifesto, subsequently awarded the 2018 Nobel Prize
for literature. It was later revealed that that the combination of
valium, sangria and Pabst Blue-Ribbon resulted in the stunningly vivid
prose.
Despite the incident, Druzin continued to report from war zones as a
freelance correspondent. He logged several years in the orient,
covering post-communist transitions in North Korea and China. He never
left his hotel room without translater and fixer, a mysterious
character known only as “Kenny from Hong Kong.”
Although the subject of much tabloid speculation, rumors of an illicit
affair between the two were never substantiated.
His reporting eventually got him kicked out of the country but not
before it won numerous awards from the Overseas Press Club and The
Freedom Foundation. China’s premier Xani Yung Dia said in 2020 that
“Druzin and Kenny from Hong Kong are a spear in heart of my military
dictatorship.”
Even with just one testicle, Druzin fathered 7 children during his 5
years in Korea and China . His propensity for “spreading his seed,” as
he put it, is largely credited for leaving him penniless and living out
of a double-wide in retirement. Even then, he relied on various Jewish
charities to bring him food and companionship.
“Heath was never really able to settle down,” Jaszewski said from his
360 acre estate in California’s Capay Valley. “He was constantly in
motion, always looking for the next adventure. In a way, it’s what made
him such a great reporter. And in a way, it’s what ended up being his
demise.”
The demise Jaszewski is referring to is Druzin’s downward spiral of
prostitution, prescription drug abuse and obsession with the New York
Yankees. He was briefly jailed for an alleged assassination plot
against Billy Beane after the A’s won 5-straight world series titles.
Between the years of 2025 and 2038 Druzin’s whereabouts couldn’t be
accounted for. Rumors circulated that he was frequenting brothels in
southern Thailand. Others claimed he was living with a harem of
conservative Jews in South Africa. Sen. Ben Rorbaugh, a childhood
friend of Druzin’s, claimed he was seeing spiritual fulfillment in the
Scottish highlands.
Wherever he was, Druzin’s creative juices continued to flow. Every six
months a new book would appear by Druzin. “Percaset and Me,” “The Lube
of My Life,” and “Bangcock Balls: Your Sensual Guide to Rural Thailand”
all hit the New York Times best-seller list.
When he emerged form his self-imposed exile, Druzin was clearly a
changed man. Grizzled and unshaven, he refused any and all job offers
accusing editors of being “good-for-nothing vages” and “bloodsucking
cocksmokers.”
Even his former business partner Jaszewski couldn’t lure him back to
the newspaper world. “Heath stopped taking my calls about 10 years
before he went back to Turkey, contracted The Fever, and died.”
Among the few items found in his double-wide was a CCCP flask,
Manchester United jersey, a 2003 issue of Modern Drunkard magazine and
not one piece of furniture.
I have a minor obsession with the obituaries of storied journalists. Some would call it a morbid obsession but I argue that said obituaries are simply inspiration to leave a good legacy. Well, my good friend and fellow blogger JoeJa picked up on my obit page reading habit and wrote me an homage. Two things come to mind reading it: in this world of company drug testing, what is this Puritanical stigma attached to recreational prescription drug use? Don't judge me, you bastards. Also, I don't have the slightest idea why a Guatemalan rebel group would call themselves The Cats of Jesus. Joe went to Catholic school, maybe he knows.
Despite the damage to my crown jewels within the piece, I was actually touched. Thanks, Joe. Here it is, get back to me in fifty years and we'll see how accurate it turns out:
Heath “Bulldog” Druzin, 72, a pioneering newspaper publisher and
conflict correspondent, died Sunday at his home in the South African
countryside of complications from Turkish Fever.
Druzin was born in New York City and moved to Palo Alto, CA at the age
of 10. He became involved in journalism in high school and continued
his involvement through college while earning a double major in History
and Political Science at UC Davis.
Druzin cut his teeth during a brief stint at The Union in Grass
Valley, CA which led him to a 2-year internship as a crime reporter at
the Advocate in Baton Rouge, LA.
“The rough streets of Baton Rouge prepared me for the complete chaos
of Guatemala and the lawless post-Communist China,” Druzin said in 2027
in a Washington Post article.
But it was Druzin’s daring career move after Baton Rouge from which he
took the most pride. He and subsequent photojournalist-turned
publishing mogul Joe Jaszewski started what was then a risky, radical
proposition: an independent newsweekly with serious, thoughtful stories
and photographs in small but booming Yolo County, CA.
Within a year of launch, Yolo Weekly had grown from a 24-page, 10,000
circulation paper to 86-pages and 50,000 copies every week. In 2005 The
New York Times Magazine heralded the venture as “The future of local
journalism.” Druzin and Jaszewski graced the Cover of Editor and
Publisher Magazine 10 times in 10 years, starting 8 more weekly
tabloids throughout the west.
The two hit a trend as it was just taking off. Soon, hundreds of
serious community newsweeklies featuring the now-standard lengthy
feature and 5-picture essay popped up throughout the county. At a
bankruptcy hearing for the once mighty Gannett Corp., then-chairman
Douglas McCorkandale wined “If only we had listened.”
Just 34 and already a multi-millionaire managing the news operations
of his 8 newspapers, Druzin eventually grew bored of the newsweekly
business. Even his three Pulitzer Prizes, the most ever for a weekly
publication, couldn’t keep him stateside.
“It’s been a great run for Joe and I,” Druzin said to the LA Times in
2015. “But my dream has always been to cover the world hot-spots and
now is the time to do it.”
Druzin’s distaste for American corporate journalism led him to eschew
offers from the New York Times, Portland Oregonian, and Seattle Times.
The Financial Times of London hired him and immediately sent him to
Guatemala, where US forces under the command of neo-conservative
president Karl Rove were flushing out pockets of resistance of the
militant Catholic rebel group knows as “Los Gatos De Jesus.”
It was in the streets of Guatemala City where Druzin suffered shrapnel
wounds while covering an LGDJ offensive into US controlled territory in
2016. An American grenade exploded in an alley where Druzin was
bunkered down with three LG rebels. In the attack he lost eyesight in
his right eye, three fingers from his right hand and, tragically, his
right testicle.
From his hospital bed in Houston Druzin penned the famous “Against
Neo-Colonialism” manifesto, subsequently awarded the 2018 Nobel Prize
for literature. It was later revealed that that the combination of
valium, sangria and Pabst Blue-Ribbon resulted in the stunningly vivid
prose.
Despite the incident, Druzin continued to report from war zones as a
freelance correspondent. He logged several years in the orient,
covering post-communist transitions in North Korea and China. He never
left his hotel room without translater and fixer, a mysterious
character known only as “Kenny from Hong Kong.”
Although the subject of much tabloid speculation, rumors of an illicit
affair between the two were never substantiated.
His reporting eventually got him kicked out of the country but not
before it won numerous awards from the Overseas Press Club and The
Freedom Foundation. China’s premier Xani Yung Dia said in 2020 that
“Druzin and Kenny from Hong Kong are a spear in heart of my military
dictatorship.”
Even with just one testicle, Druzin fathered 7 children during his 5
years in Korea and China . His propensity for “spreading his seed,” as
he put it, is largely credited for leaving him penniless and living out
of a double-wide in retirement. Even then, he relied on various Jewish
charities to bring him food and companionship.
“Heath was never really able to settle down,” Jaszewski said from his
360 acre estate in California’s Capay Valley. “He was constantly in
motion, always looking for the next adventure. In a way, it’s what made
him such a great reporter. And in a way, it’s what ended up being his
demise.”
The demise Jaszewski is referring to is Druzin’s downward spiral of
prostitution, prescription drug abuse and obsession with the New York
Yankees. He was briefly jailed for an alleged assassination plot
against Billy Beane after the A’s won 5-straight world series titles.
Between the years of 2025 and 2038 Druzin’s whereabouts couldn’t be
accounted for. Rumors circulated that he was frequenting brothels in
southern Thailand. Others claimed he was living with a harem of
conservative Jews in South Africa. Sen. Ben Rorbaugh, a childhood
friend of Druzin’s, claimed he was seeing spiritual fulfillment in the
Scottish highlands.
Wherever he was, Druzin’s creative juices continued to flow. Every six
months a new book would appear by Druzin. “Percaset and Me,” “The Lube
of My Life,” and “Bangcock Balls: Your Sensual Guide to Rural Thailand”
all hit the New York Times best-seller list.
When he emerged form his self-imposed exile, Druzin was clearly a
changed man. Grizzled and unshaven, he refused any and all job offers
accusing editors of being “good-for-nothing vages” and “bloodsucking
cocksmokers.”
Even his former business partner Jaszewski couldn’t lure him back to
the newspaper world. “Heath stopped taking my calls about 10 years
before he went back to Turkey, contracted The Fever, and died.”
Among the few items found in his double-wide was a CCCP flask,
Manchester United jersey, a 2003 issue of Modern Drunkard magazine and
not one piece of furniture.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Here's to branchless family trees
The French call them Le Bof, Americans call them hicks. Whatever you call them, they're indispensable to our general enjoyment of life. I think we all need to take a moment to give proper respect to the mulleted-masses that provide us with endless entertainment. Here's to you, Cletus.
I saw a specimen yesterday at the store. In front of me in line was a man who just didn't give a fuck. He had a scraggly, salt and pepper something between forgetting to shave and a beard, flip-flops, hypercolor shorts, a brown and yellow mesh hat and, the centerpiece of his bold outfit, a Louisiana Swine Festival T-shirt.
Naturally, the tweeker bastard paid by check.
I saw a specimen yesterday at the store. In front of me in line was a man who just didn't give a fuck. He had a scraggly, salt and pepper something between forgetting to shave and a beard, flip-flops, hypercolor shorts, a brown and yellow mesh hat and, the centerpiece of his bold outfit, a Louisiana Swine Festival T-shirt.
Naturally, the tweeker bastard paid by check.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Shattering stereotypes
Yesterday I claimed the title of cheapest Jew in Baton Rouge. How tough could that be, you may say, but keep in mind we have not one, but two synagogues in our town of nearly 300,000 people (though they don't advertise on billboards like many of the upstanding churches in the area).
After wearing a pair of sneakers with holes in them for about one year, including the entire five months I've been here (the hole became particularly apparent during a recent assignment in the woods on a very rainy day) and using running shoes that, well, also had holes in them, I went to Payless and got two pairs of shoes for $27.78. I rule.
I'll get back to y'all in a couple months when my cheap shoes spontaneously combust while I'm covering a hurricane.
After wearing a pair of sneakers with holes in them for about one year, including the entire five months I've been here (the hole became particularly apparent during a recent assignment in the woods on a very rainy day) and using running shoes that, well, also had holes in them, I went to Payless and got two pairs of shoes for $27.78. I rule.
I'll get back to y'all in a couple months when my cheap shoes spontaneously combust while I'm covering a hurricane.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Dance cracker, dance!
Last night I went to a party at an Advocate business writer's house and toasted my imperialist forebearers by drinking gin and tonics (emphasis on the gin) all night. Chad (the business writer) throws great parties. He is a relentless booze bully, chastising anyone who mixes any drink with less than 50 percent alcohol and shunning them completely if they're holding a Coke.
At his parties the music is always blaring, people are sloppy and he inevitably fires up his barbecue at 3 a.m. whether or not people are hungry (and you better fucking eat or you're in trouble).
In my gin-filled haze I actually started dancing to Jay Z to shouts of "Dance, cracker, dance!" from a large black woman on the couch.
Today, still shaking off the effect of last night's gin I walked over to a send-off party for a friend of mine who is moving to Milwaukee. I meant not to drink at all but there on the porch, like a boozy beacon, was my buddy, the gay-Republican-editorial writer-lush, wine glass in hand, and I knew this night would be much like the last. Oh well, you don't want to give your liver too many days off or it'll get lazy.
At his parties the music is always blaring, people are sloppy and he inevitably fires up his barbecue at 3 a.m. whether or not people are hungry (and you better fucking eat or you're in trouble).
In my gin-filled haze I actually started dancing to Jay Z to shouts of "Dance, cracker, dance!" from a large black woman on the couch.
Today, still shaking off the effect of last night's gin I walked over to a send-off party for a friend of mine who is moving to Milwaukee. I meant not to drink at all but there on the porch, like a boozy beacon, was my buddy, the gay-Republican-editorial writer-lush, wine glass in hand, and I knew this night would be much like the last. Oh well, you don't want to give your liver too many days off or it'll get lazy.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
So this Catholic girl...
Last night I went out for drinks with a friend of mine who used to work at the paper. As we were settling in to our beers three young local TV reporters walked in the bar much to my horror. I'm not the biggest fan and one of them had just told viewers that he had an "exclusive report" before plagiarising a story I did a week earlier.
But we all know each other from being out on the same stories and it was a sparse Wednesday night crowd so we couldn't really hide. That, coupled with the basic Southern politeness being pounded into my head down here made me invite them to join us.
Well, shockingly enough we got hammered and started swapping stories and let me be the first to say we are all pieces of shit. Five reporters sitting around a table getting sloppy and proving that we are the most obnoxious, sexist bastards around. It was like an old school backroom journalism session with all of the booze and tobacco and none of the shoe leather reporting.
Actual lines from the conversation:
My friend talking about how much he loves Catholic school girls and then, talking about a specific Catholic school girl he dated who, in a fit of Catholic guilt said:
"I feel so bad because I love it from behind."
Later I tuned into a conversation just in time to hear, "Whether or not you give her tongue or wood, she knows what's up."
Lovely.
I'm not sure why I'm sharing this but it was funny as Hell and in the interest of full disclosure I suppose I should describe the scumbags I hang out with. Oh well, I paid my penance at work today, struggling not to vomit in the office bathroom.
But we all know each other from being out on the same stories and it was a sparse Wednesday night crowd so we couldn't really hide. That, coupled with the basic Southern politeness being pounded into my head down here made me invite them to join us.
Well, shockingly enough we got hammered and started swapping stories and let me be the first to say we are all pieces of shit. Five reporters sitting around a table getting sloppy and proving that we are the most obnoxious, sexist bastards around. It was like an old school backroom journalism session with all of the booze and tobacco and none of the shoe leather reporting.
Actual lines from the conversation:
My friend talking about how much he loves Catholic school girls and then, talking about a specific Catholic school girl he dated who, in a fit of Catholic guilt said:
"I feel so bad because I love it from behind."
Later I tuned into a conversation just in time to hear, "Whether or not you give her tongue or wood, she knows what's up."
Lovely.
I'm not sure why I'm sharing this but it was funny as Hell and in the interest of full disclosure I suppose I should describe the scumbags I hang out with. Oh well, I paid my penance at work today, struggling not to vomit in the office bathroom.
Busy Druz
I know it's been a while between posts but I've been busy cranking out stories at work. The fruits of my labor include a story I did on a murder victim who appears to simply have had terrible luck. The real big deal about the story is that the guy arrested in the killing was let out on bond after being arrested for another murder last year, a decision which some might say is not looking so good in hindsight. Here's the link, I'd love to hear what you think, good or bad:
http://www.2theadvocate.com/stories/030904/new_release001.shtml
http://www.2theadvocate.com/stories/030904/new_release001.shtml
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Springtime for Druzin in Baton Rouge
It was humid and in the mid-70s in Baton Rouge today, the first time Spring has broken through after a cool and rainy winter.
As I was walked home tonight, my neighborhood exploded in sound, all of the dormant insects emerging from winter with a vengeance. Walking down Spanish Town Road toward my apartment it sounded like the hum of one's nervous system with amp cranked to 11. It felt like I was in some movie set in the Deep South in summertime and I suddenly felt the urge to grab a mint julip, sit on the porch and fan myself languidly.
Instead, to usher in Spring today, I took JoeJa and Alison, who came down for a whirlwind trip, canoeing on the bayou. Apparently the alligators took the same cue as the insects and came out to enjoy the weather because we saw two huge gators chilling on the shoreline in no rush to do much of anything.
It was certainly not the puke-in-a-pile-of-garbage-bags-on-Bourbon-Street visit that was Steve and Brett's trip, but it was just right after my near liquid diet for several during Mardi Gras.
As I was walked home tonight, my neighborhood exploded in sound, all of the dormant insects emerging from winter with a vengeance. Walking down Spanish Town Road toward my apartment it sounded like the hum of one's nervous system with amp cranked to 11. It felt like I was in some movie set in the Deep South in summertime and I suddenly felt the urge to grab a mint julip, sit on the porch and fan myself languidly.
Instead, to usher in Spring today, I took JoeJa and Alison, who came down for a whirlwind trip, canoeing on the bayou. Apparently the alligators took the same cue as the insects and came out to enjoy the weather because we saw two huge gators chilling on the shoreline in no rush to do much of anything.
It was certainly not the puke-in-a-pile-of-garbage-bags-on-Bourbon-Street visit that was Steve and Brett's trip, but it was just right after my near liquid diet for several during Mardi Gras.
