So ... Thursday night I worked the Free Press' A section. That figured to be a busy one at work, with the Minnesota state shutdown and all, complicated by the fact that the headline event wouldn't be certain until midnight and our pages are supposed to be to the press by 11:30.
Knowing that it would be a long and exhausting night (as desk work goes), Thursday afternoon I worked ahead a bit, cranking out what was intended to be my Friday morning post. The idea — I've done this repeatedly — is to time the publication for some time in the wee hours, which gives me a chance to revisit and revise after the work shift.
And then I hit publish rather than save, and what with RSS feeds and the like, it's out there, man. So much for revision. Oh well, I thought, we're going into the holiday weekend, and it's not going to be seen my most of my readers until next week. And then somebody(s) thought the piece worth tweeting about, and the hits skyrocketed in my first hour at work. And it has become one of my most-commented posts.
I'm 53. I'm too old for this instantaneous stuff. I'm not Jack McKeon — I know what Twitter is — but I'm not on Twitter because it just seems like trouble for me.
I'm comfortable with my opinion of Plouffe as a shortstop. I'm not, 20-plus hours later, comfortable with my tone in that post. I would, if I could, either eliminate the snotty comment about the limited attention span of the wired generation or explain that I can't believe people are already forgetting Plouffe's ability to turn routine grounders, handled cleanly, into infield hits. I think highly of Seth Stohs and Nick Nelson; I should be able to disagree on our evaluation of Plouffe without being personal about it.