But something—okay, everything—bothered me when I read this post on Poynter.

“…But nothing journalists do will reverse the dark tides of popular cynicism. The wrecking balls destroying the credibility of the press cannot be stopped until we focus more attention on the credibility of those who are pulling the levers, including a public that has been conditioned, like rats in a Skinnerian dystopia, to hate us.”

The gist of Roy Peter Clark’s article, as I understand it anyway, is that the public has been systematically trained by Forces Unseen to despise the press and seek out supposed bias even when there is none. And instead of navel gazing, journalists should shine a mirror on the accusatory public and say, hey, maybe it’s you guys who are digging for something to complain about, searching for an agenda or bias when there is none.

I get what he’s saying. I understand his frustration. Many of the journalists chiming in on the Poynter forums can sympathize. Certainly anyone who has worked in journalism even for a day knows where he’s coming from.

There are always times when covering the news, especially political news, will attract screeching accusations of bias from partisans on every side. That’s just how it is. But let’s put that aside, as it’s not the central issue here. The problem is that journalism in America today is broken.

That sentiment runs deep in both the public and the press. We can’t brush that off as partisan politics working its spin. As a media consumer I’ve seen countless examples of the press just plain ol’ getting things wrong, more-than-too-many slanted or spun views (regurgitated talking points, often) passed off as fact.

And the public, more aware and media savvy than ever, is calling us out. Big surprise!

Of course we’re only human, and of course we make mistakes. But the fact is that bias is there, in all spheres of reporting, from all different angles. We can not and should never just brush off bias accusations—it’s exactly that kind of “we are The Media, we know better than you, let us tell you what’s best” attitude that got American journalism in the mess it’s in!

We’re journalists, aren’t we? We’re supposed to listen. We’re supposed to process information to find the nugget of truth. So we should never dismiss such a large amount of public dissent. It’s akin to plugging our ears, dancing around saying “la la la I can’t hear you~ bias doesn’t exist~ it’s all in your head!”

Of course, it’s always hardest to be honest with yourself—even when the truth is shouted at you from all directions. But journalism in America is running out of time. This industry is in trouble. If we don’t take serious, revolutionary action to acknowledge our faults, fix our newsrooms, and redeem ourselves in the eyes of the public, American journalism will die.

The usual praise for any major artist certainly apply with this guy: he’s talented, charismatic, and entertainment-biz gold. I enjoy following what he’s up to, be it a TV appearance or a new album, and his antics are usually pretty entertaining. Many people at some point in life latch on to some sort of writer or band to fawn over—for some reason, during my formative years in Ex-urbia, Massachusetts, I found this Japanese rock star.

Now, for the meat of this post: A good friend recently introduced me to IMEEM, a service that allows you to upload music files so you can share and listen to them (streaming!) via a flash player later, kind of like a YouTube for mp3s. IMEEM also allows you to embed the flash player in your blog (again, like YouTube), so it’s made sharing music with friends by blog post really easy.

Just for kicks over lunch today, I looked up one of my favorite songs of Gackt’s, his first from when he went solo in 1999, called “Mizérable.”

In 1999, the band Gackt had just left was a gothic-rock style band called “Malice Mizer,” so I believe the purposeful misspelling of “miserable” is a thumb of his nose at the old band. (In the end, they floundered and broke up while his career continues to flourish, ouch.) So, to me, “Mizérable” is a song about ambition, regret, anticipation, hope, longing—all that lovely melodramatic stuff.

It’s still considered one of Gackt’s best tunes simply because it perfectly encapsulates that feeling of finally striking out on your own, all that anxiety and defiance.

Here’s the original recording of Mizérable, from his very first mini-album, released in 1999.

If you’ve never heard Japanese rock or pop music, this may sound very strange to you, so just listen for 2 minutes if that’s all you can take, haha.

In the summer 2004, five years after Gackt went solo, he released two retrospective albums, playing his classics either acoustically or entirely re-recorded and even re-scored. (Gackt releases at least one album a year with several singles, so even just five years into his career he had a large repertoire to choose from for a “best of” set.) “Mizérable” was one of the songs on the hard rock album called “The Sixth Day.”In this 2004 version, his voice is more mature, the sound is fuller and more polished, the composition more complex:

It’d be deceptive to say that the sophistication of this version is the result of making it big, as Gackt and Malice Mizer were already somewhat “big” when Gackt went solo. But certainly it is worth wondering about what’s lost when an artist goes from big to huge in their music and then re-records some of their old hits.

(And no, I’m not one of those fans who thinks an artist loses “cred” or soul when they go big or sign a major label. Artists need to eat, and nobody joins a band aiming for mediocrity.)

The newly re-recorded “Mizérable” has higher production values and sounds more sophisticated than the original. But if the original “Mizérable” has the spark of defiance in it, what does that defiance become five years into a wildly successful solo career? Gloating? Melancholy?

I’m curious to hear what you think. Does the motivation behind a song matter if it is performed well? Or am I just completely over-thinking this?

In the meantime, I’m gearing up for a fun weekend with friends and family. Tomorrow, I’ll be at a barbeque in Gloucester (pronounced “Glaw-stuh” for those of you not in-the-know). Gloucester has lots of stereotypically-NuEnnlan’ seaside village vistas—basically more small boats and clapboard houses than you can shake a stick at. Oodles of fun in the summer and early fall.

For the barbeque itself, well, I’m bringing tzatziki, which is about as un-NuEnnlan’ as you can get, but if the host’s barbeque skills are as legendary as he and his wife claim, some of us may need the cooling power of this dip’s yogurt/dill/mint/cucumber combination.

On Sunday, my parents and I are sorta-thumbing our noses at gas prices, hopping in our extremely gas-efficient Corolla and making the two hour trek out to the Berkshires to see the Boston Early Music Festival‘s presentation of Jean-Baptiste Lully‘s opera “Psyche.”

I stupidly missed this performance when it was in Boston and hated myself for it. The BEMF always does an amazing job with its shows, I am a huge fan of the work they have done. And when they revive a long-dormant play by my favorite French baroque composer (granted, I’m not familiar with very many) and when said production earns critical acclaim from the Boston Globe and New York Times, I think it’s worth going out of my way to see. This will consume all of my Sunday, but I’m going to consider it a warm-up for my California vacation—lots of new things to see and hear, immersion in a new experience, all requiring several hours of sitting still in transit.

Probably California will have significantly fewer men and women in frilly petticoats and lacy crinolines, but since I’ll be at an anime convention for my first few days in Long Beach, there are no guarantees!

I’d never thought much of the fashion differences between the two regions until a friend’s wedding in Oregon last September. A large portion of the guests were a smattering of West coasters. Spagetti strap dresses, light khakis and bright shirts, flip-flop/sandal shoes and no pantyhose. For a wedding! I was shocked!

On the other extreme, I was in my black-tie formalwear, white satin coat with a full-length multi-layer black skirt, definitely in hose, with black formal shoes.

When my friends saw me, there came a unanimous giggle and response: “That is SOOOO East Coast.”

When the wedding photos came back, I realized how weird I looked in contrast to all the other guests. They were lithe and tan in bright, flowing sun-dresses. Me? Pasty, overdone, stodgy. Nobody wants to be stodgy, especially when they’re 22 and at a friend’s wedding.

Lesson learned: No formalwear for my next West coast event.

I’m preparing myself for the comments that may come in a few weeks, even though I’ll be casually dressed. Most of my wardrobe is dark — dark jeans, dark shirts, and certainly dark shoes. I don’t own flip-flops or sun-dresses. Certainly nothing I own is in bright colors, there are no garish yellows or oranges in my wardrobe.

The sun and I are not on good terms. Don’t let my Greekiness fool you. For those of you that have never met me, I am pure-white pasty. My family is of the Macedonian Greek type, which means mountains and major sun-aversity. We are all very pale and bear little resemblance to our famously olive-skinned Spartan cousins in the south. So when spring and summer arrive, I slather on the SPF 60 and run under the nearest umbrella.

So, perhaps in San Francisco I might just look a little dour, perhaps people will wonder what’s harshed my mellow and then move on. But in Long Beach/LA, I dread being a Boston albino in a sea of sun-kissed SoCalers. I pray no one will have the gall to squeal the refrain I hate so much: “That is SOOOO East Coast!”

2) I’m about 1 minute from the Minuteman Bikeway.

3) The smell of sweet BBQ sauce wafts through my windows early mornings and late afternoons from Redbones. Torture? No, pure bliss, I assure you.

4) Want coffee? Want a crepe? Want to play Guitar Hero at night? Want Tibetan food? Want your sewing machine repaired? Want to browse a farmer’s market? Want to see an indie movie? Not a problem. (You get the point.) This place has A LOT to offer.

Living in Davis Square—the cons:

1) I am entirely too close to Redbones and the Greek Corner for my own good.
… OK, that’s not really a con, is it? (Unless we’re talking about my waistline.)

This marks my official 6-month anniversary of living in Davis Square, with no intentions of moving. Quite simply, this neighborhood is perfect for me. I can’t imagine being anywhere else right now.

Even though Davis is changing a lot—in some negative ways as well as positive—I’m glad to be a part of it.

[edit] And then, as if on queue: THE ICE CREAM TRUCK passes by my house. Right after I hit “post” on this thing. Geez, I thought those things were long-extinct! (See above for my uber-quick picture of that rare species from my window! Does anyone else have fond memories of their neighborhood ice cream truck?)