Because I spend about 90 percent of my time designing when I’m at home, the other 10 percent I put toward contacting potential clients and hanging out with my soon-to-be wife. She’s been very supportive in allowing this to work out and how much time has been put into it. With my lack of time in the day to get things done, I’ve hired a Marketing Director, a recent grad of Temple University, Caleb Mezzy. He will be in charge of contacting potential clients and acquiring contracts to do web design for sports organizations and athletes as well as other branding and marketing.

We’re still in the startup phase, but we’re working toward gaining more clients and more brand recognition. So please pass along the word, and keep in touch.

And go check out the site at www.5msports.com.

'I'm on a boat'

So … I got a call about a month and a half ago. It was from an old friend, Chris Courtney. After taking a new position with Tribune Interactive, Chris was looking for a few designers to help build a Creative Team. We would be in charge of building user interfaces for web, mobile and gaming platforms. After conducting a test for him, he offered me the job. So … Chelsea and I packed quickly, and now we are living in Chicago. Never thought I’d move to the Midwest, but somehow I’m here, and loving it. The city is amazing. We live about 1 1/2 blocks from Wrigley Field, a place I’ve always wanted to go growing up as a kid. Right now, we reside in a basement. But we’re looking to move up (both in style and in elevation). I miss Phoenix … or at least parts. I miss the people and the cool job of designing the sports section. I, however, don’t miss the heat. Or the commute to work. Now I take the train, which is like an 8-minute ride. And I don’t have to yell at anybody, or at least yet.

I will keep this thing updated from here on out.

To: USCP Publishers & General Managers

 

As all of you are painfully aware, the fiscal crisis is deepening and the economy is getting worse. Gannett’s revenues continue to be severely impacted by this downturn, and our local operations are suffering. While we are doing our best to reduce all non staff-related expenses, I am sorry to report that we must do another round of layoffs across our division. To that end, we will institute an involuntary staff reduction of approximately 10% by the first week of December. The terms of the severance will be one week for each year of service with a cap of 26 weeks. Each Publisher is responsible for developing their local plan to achieve the expected goal. Decisions will be made locally because each of our markets is unique, with differing market conditions and individual needs in light of our previous reductions. I have asked that all plans be completed by November 14^th at which time they will go through the standard review process. I fully understand this announcement will cause you concern but I felt that once a decision was made it should be communicated as quickly as possible. While this is more bad news, it is a sign of Gannett’s determination to remain healthy and viable as a company during these turbulent economic times. We continue to be a leader in our industry, not only because of our fiscal strength but also because we have a plan to aggressively grow the company when the economy returns.  … I appreciate your understanding and commitment during these challenging times.

Now, while I have a feeling I and many of my colleagues may be safe during this turbulent time (however, you never know), it causes me to question the very profession I became passionate about my senior year of high school and continued to grow throughout college.

The main reason I got into journalism, believe it or not, was the storytelling aspect. I enjoyed telling stories from the time I was a kid. I loved picking up the newspaper in the morning and looking at the different stories, and reading about my favorite athletes or a human interest piece that read well and seemed to touch the soul.

With the state of the industry now, however, I find my self second guessing my decision to embrace my passion rather than going into something a little more stable. But this day, no industry could really be considered that stable. I guess that’s what happens when the economy sucks. But enough about that.

Back to my passion of journalism, and how the old love affair may be fading and possibly ending.

In college almost exactly 3 years ago from today, I remember sitting down and talking to the advertising director, trying to get more space for a special section regarding the Texas Tech vs. Texas football game. While it took convincing, somehow our student advertising sales reps were able to garner enough ads to provide sufficient space for a special section. While it was modest in size, we did it. And we did it well. College kids picked it up. None were left on the racks. Maybe it was because they were going to class and it was something to help the time pass by, or that it was free. But we were able to grab the attention of the readers and keep their attention.

Now that I’ve been in the industry for two years, I’ve seen the space cut back, from having those special sections, to wrapping those into daily sections, to a smaller web size to cutting back pages on busy Sundays. It’s just a matter of time that the print product (look at that, it’s now a product rather than newspaper even to me) takes a huge cut, and we lose more staff, even after this massive set of layoffs. With the age of “Go Green” nowadays, it’s just a matter of time when we realize how much paper is used on a daily basis, and how much would be saved if we went to a web product only. Check out what the Christian Science Monitor is doing. Quite scary for those working on the print side.

Do I still love journalism? Yes, for the most part. While it’s heartbreaking to see these kinds of things happening across the country, there are stories like Lane DeGregory’s “Girl in the Window” from the St. Petersburg Times, to bring back that love. A lot of places, like St. Pete, do it right. People can get their national and world news from Google and CNN. Most do now. But what those cannot give the readers are human interest stories about those in your own surroundings.

I’m not saying the old style of journalism is the best way to conduct business, because it definitely isn’t anymore. However, in order to change, we must all be ready for change. And I think there are ways to change through innovation and new ideas. However, we must keep in mind that we are storytellers, and that can be done in many forms. We just have to select the best method, and do it well. Because if it’s done half-ass, we’re doing no favor to our readers.

I guess I can say thanks to journalism for at least opening me up to graphic design. It’s amazing how many doors are open in that profession. Haha.

Now, I know this is just a bunch of rambling, but I wanted to express my feelings on the matter.

And if you are a reader: please buy the newspaper. Even if you just recycle it, go pay the 50 cents for a newspaper to help pay my rent. Thanks

I’m still working at The Arizona Republic, but on the weekends, I double as 5MStudios, a small freelance graphic design studio developed by yours truly. I have gathered nearly a dozen clients, and am continuing to get more and more work tossed my way. Check out the developments at joeykirk.com.

OK, that’s good for now. Have a great day (… or year for that matter, depending on the next time I update this.)

Editor’s Note: This is just a rough draft of this piece of writing. I hope to continually add to it.

The sun begins to fade as thunder roars louder than the pipes of the Harley-Davidson he had been riding all day. Smoke seeps from his lips as he flicks the ash and cigarette butt to the ground and stomps it out as if the embers would catch the dry, brown grass on fire on contact.

He coughs.

The sound is more frightening than the storm on the horizon. Before this moment, nothing has ever terrified me more than the spine-tingling sound of thunder.

As a child, and even now, I am constantly scared of the powerful force of mother nature and how her fury can rain down. Where the fear stems from is difficult to determine, but storms always seem to signify traumatizing and emotional events in my life.

Several years ago, I remember standing in my bedroom. On my desk, my phone begins to play music and the vibrations cause it to fall off onto the floor. I kneel down, pick it up and answer it. On the other line is my mother.

Her words pierce through my heart, race through my mind. Rain falls against the window. Lightning flashes as the thunder follows.

“You’re grandfather has passed away,” she says.

My stomach shatters. I can’t breath. Tears begin to fall. The news comes as a shock, as if I had just been electrocuted.

About two years ago, I remember sitting at my desk during a long night at work. My phone begins to vibrate. I feel the repetitive motion against my thigh. I dig in my pocket, pulling out the phone and answer it. On the other line is my mother.

Her words hit deep inside, and at that moment, thunder shakes the newsroom. Lightning flashes through the windows. Rain smacks against the panes of glass.

“We had to put Blackjack down,” she says.

My heart splits. I can’t breath. A downpour of tears begins. I drown in sadness.

The constant roar of thunder or the flicker of lighting sends me back to these moments. The rain doesn’t soothe. It terrifies.

And at this particular moment, I am not terrified, but merely concerned. It becomes more violent, and then he hunches over in exhaustion.

He coughs.

“Dad, are you all right?” I ask, believing he had just gotten the thick cloud of smoke caught in his windpipe.

As I question his well being with minimal concern, he stands erect once again and spits out toward the grass. Blood leaps from his mouth and hits the grass, looking as though the red substance is scorching the earth.

“I’m fine,” he replies.

He coughs.

I make a promise. I know in my mind, in my heart, that I shouldn’t make the promise, but I do it anyway.

“Don’t tell your mom,” he says. “I’ll be all right.”

Ignoring my gut, I say, “OK.”

The thunder disagrees with the decision. The sound rumbles the windows, briefly deafens me and reverberates deep inside my body.

As we drive back down the busy streets of Murphy, he lowers his window. Again, blood leaps from his mouth.

He continues to assure me, “I’ll be OK.”

The thunder’s roar seems to signify otherwise, and I become terrified.

Stepping out of the car, right into an ankle-deep puddle of what was Tropical Storm Barry, it took flight out of the security of my grip and into what would be its demise.

A moment of slow motion began as I reached out to snatch it before it made a splash. No such luck. The water rippled. A bubble rose to the surface.

Soaked, I reached down to pick it up. I immediately tried to resuscitate it by blowing deep breaths. I wiped the water from its screen. No time. No bars. No sign of life.

While it changed its appearance many times, but it never changed its personality. It had been a friend when I was in need of kind words. It was a mother’s soothing voice when the stress became too overwhelming. It had been a jukebox when no music was playing.

And at that moment, it had died. It had drowned. I was alone.

The day prior, I had driven 15 hours from Dallas, Texas, to Tallahassee, Fla. Every three, I was connecting with my mother, my father, my sister … my friends. I wasn’t alone.

Now, panic took over. Fear set in. Four states over, I was stuck in the middle of a strong, dangerous rainstorm; no way to communicate with those who cared about me. No way to tell them I was OK.

For seven years, my cell phone had been by my side, day in and day out. It was given to me along with the responsibility of driving a car. Everywhere I went, my phone went. It had its own place to stay whenever we left the house — my front left pocket.

It strayed away from its normal home on this particular day, resting on my thigh as I made my way down Interstate 75, dodging the rain droplets that smacked against my drenched windshield. I had just finished a long conversation before stopping at the scene of the incident in Lake City, Fla.

With a quarter of a tank of gas and the heavy rain leaving me blind to the path I was taking, I decided to stop and fill the tank. The station became a beckon for travelers wishing to avoid the downpour. After circling the pumps for 10 minutes, I found an empty space. I parked beneath the awning, however, the rain still penetrated the area, leaving unsuspecting drivers soaking wet; myself included.

The rushing water covered the asphalt; just deep enough for such an event. As I exited my vehicle, the phone decided to join me, plunging to its impending death.

With a dilemma on my hands and crisis in the midst, I only had one option.

After discovering a Cingular store location in Gainesville, only 15 minutes away, I plugged in the address to the GPS unit in my car, and I was set to retrieve a new phone.

Stopping at the store, I found the cheapest phone to be $280, without a service plan extension. Given my plan went month-to-month, I signed a two-year contract, handed over my credit card, and I decided to purchase the same model, this time with a built-in video camera.

Since then, the other phone has dried. The time has been restarted. The picture is back.

So now, I have two Motorola Razors. The first, I wanted. The second, I needed.

I guess I could’ve used a pay phone. It just wouldn’t have been the same.