A journalist in the city

[A journalist in the city]

Friendsgiving

Once you leave home, there is one person who can impact your mood, your sanity, and your life, day in and day out — your roommate. This is the person you come home to, whether you want to or not. I’ve had mostly good roommates. My first roommate in the dorm freshman year and I were both homebodies. People would come to our door to see if we wanted to go out to hit up parties on the weekends and she would say to tell them that she was going to Skype her boyfriend. “But that doesn’t get me out of it!” I’d tell her. We finally came up with a list of excuses that included both of us. She and I found a group of friends we’d stay close with for the next few years. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding last month.

Next, I moved in with two girls — one of whom I met on our floor in the dorm. Both were wonderful people. We watched the entire series of Gilmore Girls together.

I had my nightmare roommate Junior year. Every one of us has one of those. I was actually on the five-year plan so this was like Sophomore year, part II. She and I were good friends for a long time. Then her on-again-off-again boyfriend broke up with her for good and everything about her changed. She started partying every weekend and had people over at the apartment all the time. The most infamous night, I heard them partying in the living room until four in the morning. When I came out of my room, there was cake smeared into our carpet and a Burnets vodka bottle smashed in pieces all over our kitchen floor. The towel rack had been pulled off the wall in the bathroom and my towel was soaking wet in a ball behind the toilet. I had just started working at the Collegian that semester so I stopped being fun. I had fallen in love with work and was fully committed to the paper. It was like those girls who get a boyfriend and ditch out on all their friends. I was like that but instead of a boyfriend, I was married to work. I had found my passion. I worked all the time — between classes, nights, and weekends, so having people partying in our apartment all hours of the night got really old really fast. We stopped talking. Our friends took sides. It was a mess.

Both of us were taking classes over the summer, but I went home between the end of finals and the beginning of summer classes. When I came back to the apartment she had cleared out the kitchen. There were no pots and pans or dishes. She kept them in her room so I couldn’t use them. It was the most passive aggressive thing anyone has ever done to me.

After she moved out, one of my favorite roommates moved in. She and I didn’t know each other before but she lived in my apartment complex and had a roommate moving out so she moved one building over to live with me. My favorite memory was coming home to her jumping up and down on our couch wearing her homemade Bat Girl costume. When I walked in, she stopped jumping and stared at me. Still standing on our couch cushions and said, “I didn’t think you’d be home for hours.” I couldn’t help but laugh. We went to see the Star Trek midnight premiere together and we’d stay up nights talking about superheroes and watch Smallville.

My next roommate is still one of my best friends. She and I meet through the nightmare roommate. She and I took trips. We road tripped to Memphis and Nashville for spring break. Sometime I’ll tell you about the story of how we had to rock repel out of a river on that trip. We drove to the Grand Canyon and planned it out so we’d get there in time to see the sunrise. She’s close with my parents. She lived with them for a few months and now serves on the board of directors for my mom’s nonprofit.

My point is that roommates are important. They’re the people who can affect your day-to-day life the most. If things aren’t happy at home, it’s hard to be happy elsewhere. When you don’t feel safe leaving your room to make a trip to the bathroom, it’s a problem.

I know a lot of people have horror stories about their New York roommates. Since starting at Odyssey, I’ve heard a few of those stories. Nightmare stories. I’m lucky though.

One of my roommates and I met about a year ago. We had back to back classes together and one day I told her I liked her glasses. Instant friendship. Then in one of our first conversations, we realized we both had plans to move to New York. We decided to be roommates. To he honest, I might have given up on coming here if it weren’t for her. It was hard leaving home. It was hard moving here without a job. It was hard spending the summer job hunting all over the city when I had offers waiting for me in Colorado. It was hard hearing nothing back, knowing I’d have to live off my savings if nothing came through. But I made a commitment. She and I agreed to be roommates and I had to follow through. I’m so grateful that I met her because she helped get me here.

My other roommate I’ve known since high school. We met through a mutual friend, who I also adore. This friend turned to me at a bonfire one night and said, “Hey, you both knit,” and that was it. We spent the next 40 minutes talking about our love of the craft and all the things we’d made and all the techniques we loved. This past summer she posted on Facebook that she got a job in Manhattan and needed a place to live so I reached out and things have been wonderful.

Our apartment is perfectly balanced. She and I both knit (which is a lifestyle in our household). The other one and I are both from Colorado. They are both gluten free and like Opera (eww). So we balance each other out. We’re all introverts at heart so we are all similar in temperament and lifestyle. Two of us are in serious relationships so having boys over isn’t a problem. We all love to cook. We all love movies and are so good at binge watching TV shows we could do it professionally.

Tonight we’re having “Friendsgiving” at our apartment. 

We still don’t have any chairs or a kitchen table so we’ll sit on the floor. Some of our outlets don’t work so we might need an extension cord. We have a scrappy place, but our Brooklyn apartment has become home. It’s home because of them. We take care of each other. We make fun of each other. We plan weekend outings together. We watch Netflix and we talk about the world.

This thanksgiving, I’m thankful for them. I’m thankful for them and for all of the wonderful roommates I’ve had before them who have made my home-away-from-homes the place I love resting my head at the end of the day.

This is my first Thanksgiving away from my parents and my dogs, but it’s also the first Thanksgiving where I already feel like I’m home.

[A journalist in the city]

I got a new job

I resisted becoming a journalist for a long time. My image of reporters was one of TV crews swarming people on the steps of a courthouse or clamoring to snap a picture of someone recovering in a hospital bed. Working at the Collegian taught me it doesn’t have to be like that. It is possible to do excellent reporting without being obtrusive or insincere. Beyond that, being a journalist means what you write can have a major impact on policy and global affairs.

Being a reporter brought me out of my shell. I learned how to strike up a conversation with strangers. I learned how to befriend victims of a tragedy. I learned how to make people feel comfortable enough to tell me their story, even if it’s the worst day of their life. I have a delicate style. I don’t think it’s good reporting to sit outside someone’s apartment waiting to bombard them when they come home from work. I don’t think it’s ethical to sneak into a hospital to try to find the victim of a nightclub shooting. I don’t think you get good information from someone by chasing them up the street with a camera and a recorder. But that’s the kind of reporting I was doing at the New York Post.

On one particular day, I was sent to cover a case at the courthouse in Queens. An adorable 74-year-old woman who lives in Manhattan discovered that a squatter was living in her family’s house. He had sold off most of her heirlooms and possessions. I was sent to the courthouse and spotted her the second I walked in the door. She spoke with me briefly before the judge called the court to order. I looked around and realized she was alone. I asked her if she had any family or anyone who came with her to court. She didn’t, so I asked her if she wanted to sit with me. That’s my style of reporting. I believe you get further by being kind to people than by acting as an aggressor. She sat next to me in court and whispered background information about the case to me as the attorneys spoke to the judge.

After the person who was arrested for the crime was arraigned and the judge ruled that his bail would be continued, the man was free to go. The defendant abruptly hurried out of the courtroom to avoid the press. He knew we were there for him. A reporter from the New York Daily News was also in court and ran after him. Now listen, I want the story as bad as the next guy and I’m willing to go pretty far to do my job and get the best information I can, but I know chasing a guy down the street when he’s literally running from you isn’t going to get you anything but a punch in the face or, at most, a “no comment.” To me, that’s just common sense. But my photographer from the Post, the photographer from the Daily News, and the Daily News reporter were all in hot pursuit, so I ran with them. The photographers sprinted to get in front of him while The Daily Post reporter yelled questions. The photographers got a good shot, but the defendant didn’t say anything either of us could use in a story so I went back to the courthouse.

I met up with the victim outside on the courthouse steps. She was sad to hear he hadn’t told us anything. She just wanted to know why he did it and if there was a way for her to get her belongings back. She told me she wanted to go and speak with the attorney prosecuting the case to find out exactly what the verdict was and what it meant for her case, so I walked the five blocks with her to their office. As we walked, she gave me more background information about the case and asked me questions about my career. She used to be a journalist at a radio station and she told me stories about what it was like reporting in the good ol’ days.

She introduced me to the ADA on her case and the Police Investigator. I got contact information for both and was encouraged to follow up with them if I had any additional questions. When we left the building and were parting ways, she hugged me. We spent a little less than two hours together, at the end of which, she hugged me, told me she’d call with more information, and told me to stay in touch.

Covering that story helped me get some clarity on my job at the Post. I’m a glass-half-full kind of person. Even when I spend hours sitting outside someone’s apartment waiting for them to come home or going door to door to interview neighbors, I still come home and try to give it a positive spin. Every day I found myself spending the walk from the subway to my apartment rationalizing how I spent my day. That hug from this elderly woman reminded me why I do what I do. She reminded me why I love my job. The press serves a purpose in this country. We have a certain amount of power to control the narrative, support victims of tragedy, and expose wrongdoing. This woman helped me admit to myself that I was unhappy. I had only been at the job for two weeks and I figured I needed to give it time. I figured I just needed to develop my sea legs. However, chasing people down the street and sneaking into a hospital to get a picture of a shooting victim (something I did later that same day) reminded me that that’s the kind of reporter I never wanted to be. I don’t have the personality for it. I’d rather pour over police reports and court documents, put calls into people who might have real answers and insight than spend my days in pursuit of the most sensationalistic quote. I went through something similar when I considered becoming a foreign correspondent. After I spent the summer in Israel hiding in shelters and dodging rockets, I realized though I have immense respect for people who can do a job like that, I’m just not one of them.

I got into this profession because I love writing and I’m a good storyteller. As much as being a reporter has helped me become more extroverted, I’m still an introvert at heart and I’ve learned how to use that to my advantage. I’m good at my job because I’m not intrusive. I don’t get up in anyone’s face. I’m the person who’s willing to wait two years for a source to feel comfortable coming forward (that actually happened with this story) than I am hunting her down and pressuring her to talk to me. I’m the reporter who stands on the sidelines and observes, then acts. I’m the reporter who meets a 74-year-old lady in a courtroom, recognizes that she came alone, and asks her if she’d like to sit with me. I’m a polite reporter. I have empathy. I say please and thank you.

I never wanted to be a journalist who cares more about the job and the byline than the people I interact with when I’m reporting. When I graduated, the journalism faculty gave me an award for Ethics in Journalism. They gave it to me because I was someone who was committed to getting the story, but I never forgot the necessity to act with compassion and empathy. When I was an editor, I required my staff to operate with those same pillars of respect. I’m a good reporter because I exude those traits no matter the story I’m working on. 

It was the end of my second week at the Post and I was struggling to incorporate those traits into my job. I’ll run all over town for a story and I’ll knock on doors and talk to witnesses, but I’m still not someone who’s comfortable chasing a guy down the street with a camera and a recorder. That day I came home crying. The job was eating me up inside. Then I realized if I was unhappy, I could do something about it. So I interviewed for a job somewhere else.

I found out about an Assistant Managing Editor position at a publication called Odyssey. In this position, I would supervise twenty Editor in Chiefs from campuses around the country and oversee the content their staffs produced. I would read over 200 articles a week, mentor new writers, and help them learn how to be better leaders. I went in for multiple interviews and was impressed by the staff I met. I could tell these people believed in the same things I did. They believed in grassroots journalism and in providing a platform on which their writers could stand and express their thoughts and values. With each interview, I became more and more excited about the possibility of being an editor again, and I grew more and more dissatisfied at the Post.

I went through multiple interviews but ultimately got the job. I quit the Post and I started at Odyssey last week. I’m finally excited to go into work again. This job encompasses the things I loved most about working at the Collegian. I get to work in a collaborative environment and help reporters who’ve never done this before learn how to write well and write with integrity. 

Mike Humphrey was my first faculty advisor at the Collegian. He was my mentor, my Yoda. After my second year at the Collegian, he suggested I apply to be a news editor. I told him I thought I would miss reporting too much. I valued being the person who was given an assignment and had the freedom to decide how to pursue it. I got into this because I love writing and it didn’t make sense to me to be an editor. I thought I’d hate being stuck at a desk all day. Mike turned to me and said, “In this industry there are reporters and there are editors. You are an editor.” I fought him on that. I thought editors were boring people who sat behind a computer screens, completely removed from what was actually happening on the ground. I thought editors were stuffy and too far removed from the people I got to engage with as a reporter. I was wrong. I love being an editor because it’s a job where I get to see the whole picture. Instead of managing 12 articles at once, I get to manage 40. I learn from the people I work with and I pass on the knowledge I have to reporters and editors who work under me.

I’m a workaholic. My college roommate used to joke that I spent more time in the newsroom than I did at our apartment. She wasn’t wrong. There were days I’d be in the newsroom until after midnight, come home to sleep and change clothes and then go back 8 or 9 the next morning. The crazy thing, I was beyond happy because I loved the work I was doing. I’ve only been at Odyssey a week, but it feels good to be at a job I love again. 

[A journalist in the city]

NYC 365, month one

Remember that time I said I was going to take one photo everyday? Well, I’ve actually done it! And kept up with it! Shocking, I know. Snaps for Kate.

At first I worried all the pictures might be annoying for my Facebook friends/Instagram followers. I found myself getting really self conscious about it around the second week, but I tried to stop feeling bad about it because it’ll be so cool to look back at them years from now. I think we tend to remember times in our lives as a whole without necessarily remembering the details - how the sun came in through your bedroom window or what the sunrise on the streets of Manhattan looked like that one morning. I like the idea of having a way to chronicle the little moments.

It’s been a great discipline. It’s forcing me to appreciate literally every single day I’m here and acknowledge at least one good thing everyday. Even if it’s not part of your job to snap photos all the time, I highly encourage it.

On another note, I’m not going to lie, I didn’t think anyone was reading this blog. I’ve mostly been writing it for myself, but over the past week two people have referenced it in conversations with me, so hello to the two people reading this. Kisses to you. Thanks for reading!

Here are the photos of my first month in NYC!

Today I started my first job and the last photo in this series is from my first day reporting on scene for the New York Post. The next 30 days of pictures are most likely going to read like a “Day in the Life of a Working Journalist” series. Apologies in advance for the journalist porn. Knowing me, it’s unavoidable. I’ll do my best to throw in some cute bunny pictures of Melba along the way :)

If there are people looking at this who want to know the stories behind any of the photos, they’re all written out on the original Instagram posts! If you want to check those out or want to track each day, here’s the link to my Instagram. My username is k8mckee - same as this blog.

Enjoy!

[A journalist in the city]

The one piece of advice I continually get from professional journalists - from international correspondents to disaster reporters - is to always have a system to organize your equipment. Every journalist needs a “go bag.” It’s not always needed in everyday reporting, but when you’re covering an all-day excursion like a flood in Northern Colorado, an active shooter at a high school in Denver, or dodging rockets in Israel (all of which I’ve done with no real strategy in regards to my equipment), it’s nice to have a bag that holds all your shit.

I didn’t have this bag for any of that. My college roommate and I took a trip to the Grand Canyon last November and she gets all the credit for introducing me to this beauty — the perfect reporter backpack. Even though Kendall isn’t a reporter, she is a photographer and she brought this Langly bag with her on our trip. It was everything I had always needed but could never find. It was designed by a photographer who was fed up with ugly, bulky camera bags, so he created his own. As she sat in the driver’s seat with her laptop, uploading photos we’d just taken of the sunrise over the Canyon, I sat in the front seat of her car exploring this newly found treasure. There’s a padded zipper compartment for your laptop, the bottom unzips into a padded area for your camera and camera accessories (extra lenses and the like), and there’s still enough space in the top for a jacket, knitting, snacks, a book, a reporter’s notebook, etc. It has room for all the necessities. Oh, and it’s water resistant. The perfect go bag for the working journalist and/or photographer.

I start my first post-college reporting job tomorrow and I couldn’t be more thrilled because I get to be out in the field. I have this strong aversion to reporting from a desk. It can be done and I’ll do it, but there’s nothing like being on scene, seeing the faces of the people you’re talking to and watching their expressions change. This bag will accompany me. In rain, sun, or snow, I’ll be out there pounding the pavement trying to find the story - or the story underneath the story.

[A journalist in the city]

Employed.

I am the newest reporter on the Metro Desk at the New York Post! They have me starting out part time as I learn the ropes, but three days a week I’ll be running around the city covering any and all breaking news. Basically, I call in at the beginning of my shift, they tell me where the news is, and I go cover it. Whether it’s in Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan or Long Island, and whether it’s a severe car crash, City Hall, the governor, or some random convention, I’ll be the one on scene.

If that wasn’t exciting enough, the other two days of the week I’ll be working at The Yarn Company in Manhattan. They have a great atmosphere, great people, and amazing yarns. I took in some of the projects I’ve done and they also hired me as a designer! They’re literally giving me yarn and paying me to knit with it. This is the dream.

I couldn’t have planned this any better. Journalism and knitting. My life is complete.

[A journalist in the city]

Not your average cookie dough

Junk food is so tempting when you’re unemployed. You’re already living in sweatpants, navigating time between responding to emails and contacting job references… but mostly streaming Netflix for hours on end with a little Tumblr crusing and maybe a little Pinteret thrown in there. Then, a wonderful thing happens and you come across something that pulls you out of your unshowered, job-hunting fog. For me, it was a post about cookie dough made with Greek yogurt and peanut butter.

Now, full disclosure, I’m sometimes really good at following recipes. Other times, not so much. When I made this the first time, it was a not-following-the-recipe-so-much time. I posted a picture of it (yes, like all those people you hate who post food pictures. I actually love food porn pictures, but I promise I do it sparingly) and I was overwhelmed by the number of people asking for the recipe. Like a dummy, I didn’t have it because I didn’t really follow one.

Today though, I hope to have redeemed myself. I made this delicious concoction again. I measured everything out and took scrupulous notes.

The recipe isn’t hard at all. I doubled/tripled the original because lets be real, this will probably be my main meal tomorrow #noshame

Recipe:

1 32oz container of Greek yogurt (about 3 cups)
1 ¼ cups of creamy peanut butter
¼ cup of honey

Put all of this together in a mixing bowl and blend together.
Add chocolate chips.

The end.

Yes, it’s seriously that easy.

[A journalist in the city]

Sometimes it really is about who you know

Note: This post was written Tuesday September 15 when I was on the subway heading to my first job interview.

I was told to keep every business card I was ever given. I was told that when it was time to get a job, there would be nothing better than having a reference vouching for me.

As far as recent college graduates go, I’m qualified. Probably overly qualified for just having graduated college. I managed a newsroom with a daily newspaper, nightly television show, weekly magazine, and a 100-person staff. I studied international reporting in Israel and interned at a national publication. Compared to other kids my age, I’ve done a lot. It’s been hard for me to cope with the fact that even though I did everything right to get my resume up to snuff, I still struggled to get a job.

I’ve been on the job hunt now for five months. It’s not as bad as it could be, but it’s still incredibly frustrating. I don’t mind rejection. What I do mind is not hearing anything. There is nothing worse than sending out application after application after application after application and not hearing anything.
Radio silence.

So I took a different tactic. I started spreading the word. I told people I knew that I wanted to move to New York and that I was looking for a job somehow related to journalism. Then something amazing happened. My neighbor gave me the name of someone she knows. I emailed that person. Without asking me anything, that contact said, “Gail says you are fabulous… I don’t know of specific job openings but I could give you people to contact at [insert list of publications here].” 

She sent me a list of names and emails.
I emailed all of them.

One of them replied and forwarded my name to one of her deputy editors. He emailed me, asked if I was living in New York and asked when I could come in for an interview, again without asking me any questions. 

So now I’m in an odd position. I’m sitting on the subway on my way to a job interview. I haven’t spoken directly with anyone in this thread of references. I haven’t been asked about my experience or why I want to work for this specific company. I don’t even know what job I’m interviewing for. I’ve just been sent from reference to reference to reference.

All I know is that I’m headed to a newsroom so it doesn’t matter what the job is. The newsroom is where I’m home. The newsroom is where I’ve found my family. I know this one will be different than the last, but I’m excited to find home again. 

Wish me luck!

[A journalist in the city]

For all my moms out there

I’ve had so many family, extended family and friends-who-might-as-well-be-family ask for updates about my move to New York. To appease everyone, here’s an all-inclusive post about the move and my first weekend in the city.

Originally we thought one van would be enough. I decided that it was way too expensive to ship furniture from Denver so I ended up bringing out a bunch of furniture from my grandma’s house in Chautauqua, New York. I was able to scrounge up two twin beds (one for me and one for my other roommate from Colorado), a bedside table, a chest of drawers, a sewing desk, etc. I also packed up boxes of books, kitchen items, and other miscellaneous things. It was quickly determined that all of this, plus three people, was not all going to fit in one van. If we had fit in the van, this would have been my seat for seven hours.

We call it my Anne Frank corner.

No bueno.

So we ended up taking a rental cargo van and our car. We filled the van with the drawers, beds, boxes, suitcase, etc. and used the car for everything else.

My mom and dad helped drive me out on Friday. It ended up being a nine hour drive because of all the Friday rush hour traffic when we reached the city. My bunny slept on my lap the entire way. Her name is Melba and she’s the absolute best. Any pet who will sleep for nine hours in a car either on your lap or on a pillow next to you, is automatically amazing. She’s super chill and I love her.

Just look at that face and tell me you’re not all ready in love with her.

We hit rush hour coming into the city, but that allowed us to stop and look out at this amazing view across the George Washington Bridge!!

Even though we didn’t get to my apartment until 7:00 p.m., we still moved most of my furniture up that night. We met three of my neighbors because my mom is social like that and they all assured her that I’m in a safe neighborhood and that she doesn’t need to worry about me. She still will, but it was nice of them to reassure her. They were all very nice and friendly. We assembled the beds that night and I spent most of Saturday unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and nesting. I love nesting.

Quick side story: I have always been a notorious plant killer. In high school, I murdered bamboo - the easiest plant to keep alive ever. You literally just water it. Anyway, a year ago I took a horticulture class to finish up my stupid science credit for college. They gave us a plant our first week and we were tasked with keeping it alive. Not only did I keep my plant alive, but I fell in love with having plants in the house, I named her, and I brought her out to New York with me. Yes, I’m the crazy person that brought my plant from Colorado to New York. She has a beautiful window in my bedroom where she gets direct sunlight most of the day and she’s absolutely thriving.

Sunday my parents and I walked around the city. My parents both lived and worked in Manhattan in the 70s-80s so we went to see the Polo Ralph Lauren store my dad helped open in the mid-80s and we went by my mom’s old apartment where she had two cats. We took the route she walked to work and went inside the lobby where my dad stayed when he commuted from Denver to New York on business trips when I was a baby.

One stop that was an absolute must was visiting Central Park and the Bethesda Fountain. My Uncle Kirk gave my mom a beautiful framed photo of the Bethesda Fountain for Christmas a few years ago and it’s been in our kitchen ever since. Both my parents love the area and when mom opened it, they both knew exactly where it was - which they explained to me at the time. Our first day in the city, we had to go and get a picture at the fountain for Uncle Kirk.

So life is good. I found a wonderful grocery store down the street and a park two blocks over. I’ve been walking through my neighborhood in the mornings and it’s starting to feel like home. I’m still not completely nestled into my apartment, but that’ll come with time. 

I’m challenging myself to take one photo a day to document my first year in New York. Many of the ones I’ve taken so far have been uploaded into this post but I’ll be sure to put them up every week or so. If you want to see them before they make their way to tumblr, visit my instagram: https://instagram.com/k8mckee/

[A journalist in the city]

Guys, I live here now.

And what a journey it was. My wonderful, amazing, incredibly patient roommate, Erin, and I went through quite an ordeal this week. We drove 12 hours, rode the train for 3 hours, took 7 subway rides, walked 15 miles in 90 degree heat, and visited 5 apartments all in one day, but we found the one!

I won’t tell you exactly where it is because the internet scares me and I don’t want to get murdered, but if you guys promise not to stalk and kill me, I’ll show you some pictures. It’s a three bedroom brownstone in Brooklyn and it’s amazing. I’m only paying a couple hundred dollars more a month in rent than I was in Fort Collins so that was unexpected, unheard of, and completely surreal.

Here’s the view from our front door. Our neighborhood is about a 30 minute commute from the city.

We’re on the third floor and my room has three windows!! It also has some beautiful exposed brick over what used to be a fireplace. They must have known better than to let me have fire. But now the fireplace has bookshelves, so I’ll be just as happy with that. My books will keep me warm.

It also has amazing hardwood floors.

The apartment was recently renovated and we’re the first tenants to move in! We also found out they had only posted the listing that morning so we were one of (if not the only) group to see it. We totally lucked out. This is the living room. In the back of the photo is a doorway that leads to Erin’s room, then the kitchen, the bathroom, and the white door (on the right) is the front door. I will now direct your attention to that big white rectangle in the ceiling and the big white rectangle on the floor. That’s a skylight and the reflection of the skylight. Yes, we have a skylight. How cool is that!? Erin also has an awesome fire escape out her window and a beautiful view of the little backyard we share with the other tenants. All of us have great views outside our windows!

I was an idiot and didn’t get any photos of Erin’s room, the kitchen or the bathroom, but in my defense, this was the fourth apartment we’d seen and I was exhausted and felt like death. If I have any wisdom to impart – use a CamelBak or a CamelBak equivalent when you go apartment hunting in New York in August. You might look like a total weirdo walking around the city with that, but dehydration is a bitch.

Here’s a photo taken in the living room looking the other way (when I’m standing adjacent to the front door). Laurel’s room is on the left, mine is on the right and that weird half-man is the cool dude who showed us the apartment. He’s showing off how much natural light there is. Yes, cool half man. I do see how amazing the natural light is.

This is Laurel’s room - the one next to mine. She couldn’t come on our apartment hunt so this photo was mostly so she could have a better idea how much space she’ll have. She has a pretty tree outside her window and a walk-in closet.
___ ___ ___

So this is the place! Erin and I debated between this one and one other one we looked at, but this one definitely takes the cake. I’m happy with it and they’re both happy with it so we sent the rental agreements in today! 

Now I just can’t wait to move in!

[A journalist in the city]

Jon Voyage

Looking through my social media pages this week, you’d think someone died. I’m seeing “Heath Ledger dying”-level despair all over Twitter and Facebook. And it’s all for someone who isn’t dead, just retiring. Jon Stewart’s final night as The Daily Show host was last night, and over the past week (actually over the whole summer if we’re being honest) my contemporaries have aired their despair loudly and continually on multiple platforms.

(Image courtesy of The Boston Herald: www.bostonherald.com)

I’m sad, too. I was one of the many millennials who reached high school, became fed up with the news media, and turned to the one person who helped me make sense of the world around me. We could feel news organizations trying anything and everything they could to reach us. They wanted so badly to be hip and cool and sit with us at our lunch table. Meanwhile, Jon just walked in and sat down. He mastered something that none of them could ever grasp - he treated us like adults. Jon never talked down to his audience; he never made us feel stupid; he spoke with an incredible intellect and he expected us to echo that intellect back to him.

“He mastered something that none of them could ever grasp - he treated us like adults.”

Over the past few days I have done something many of my contemporaries have not done - I’ve actually read the news. I’ve read articles echoing our despair, losing the legend that gave rebirth to the genre of the comedic newsperson. I’ve also read articles bashing him for ruining our generation.

I started looking at his negative press for fun - I thought I’d be tapping into the equivalent of high school gossip, something hurtful but ultimately untrue. But after that first one, I read another, and then another. I kept reading them because I realized I don’t disagree with what they’re saying or what they’re interpreting as the real legacy he’s leaving behind.

The followers of the Jon Stewart doctrine take everything he says as gospel. His news desk is the pulpit from which he disseminates critical assessments of Fox News and certain ideologues in the Republican party. He preached to the choir and throughout most of my adolescence and all of my young adult life, I was happy to be part of his chorus.

Now that he is gone, however, I’m worried. I’m worried because I’ve noticed a theme among my contemporaries: “Where will I get my news now?”

I am worried because we have been spoiled by Jon Stewart. We didn’t look any further for our news than tuning in at 11:00 p.m. on Comedy Central or catching it online at our leisure. He became our generation’s Walter Cronkite. You didn’t know what was going on in the world if you didn’t tune in, and worse yet, you couldn’t engage with your friends and colleagues the next day if you hadn’t seen Jon Stewart the night before.

“He became our generation’s Walter Cronkite.”

He showed us clips of conservative news coverage, wrapped in a liberal twist, all tied up in a hilariously delivered comedic bow. I don’t agree that he ruined our generation. I think my generation greatly benefited from his insight and intellect. I do agree, however, that he spoiled us and is leaving a generation of 20-30 somethings with no idea of how to find news on their own. (For any of you reading this, I’ve linked to a few great news sources below).

I have refrained from pouring my heart out on social media, crying about the demise of my favorite news source. I’ve refrained partially because he isn’t my only news source. After I got through my adolescent “hate the world” phase, I branched out and found news sources I could identify with and appreciate both as a journalist and as an American living in a continually developing world. Personally, I will miss Jon Stewart. Professionally, I don’t disagree that he is leaving a void of dependent news consumers. He is leaving a generation who is now lost, waiting for their next prophet.

News sources:

The Atlantic

Vox

Five Thirty Eight

The International Business Times

and, for those of you who still need a little dash of comedy with your news,

Last Week Tonight