"The Lowcountry looks like it’s been hit by Hurricane Mark." — Rep. John Graham Altman, R-Charleston

I first learned the trade of journalism in Tennessee, so I hope I can be forgiven if I occasionally revert to an atavistic form of that genre — the form that Mark Twain lampooned so brilliantly.

I managed to shy away from that temptation in editing today’s lead editorial, which quoted recent headlines about Gov. Sanford’s vetoes in the Charleston and Greenville papers, to wit:

— "Sanford vetoes funds for local groups," The Greenville News

— "Veto Storm Hits Lowcountry," The Post and Courier

But this is my blog, and in the vigorous spirit of my 19th century journalistic forebears, I feel free to give vent to my righteous indignation at the cupidity of those greedy poltroons in the Upstate and the degenerate hedonists of the Lowcountry. (One must particularly admire the hyperbolic hyperventilations of our brethren down on the coast, who led their report — an apparent news story, not an editorial, mind you — thusly: "Only a hurricane could do more damage to the Lowcountry than Gov. Mark Sanford’s veto pen." They did attribute that sentiment to local lawmakers, but we all know that dodge.)

I, me, mine — that’s all they think about. Here we are in Columbia doing our best to think about the interests of the state as a whole — our energies are devoted to nothing else — and all they can do up and down the road from us is whine about their petty, parochial little local goodies. Well, it’s enough to make a decent man blush with mortification at the state of the human race.

Of course, being eaten up with intellectual honesty as we habitually are here in the true heart of the state, we do have to acknowledge that there weren’t any local goodies in the budget for the Midlands. To which we must ask, why? You would think that, as tirelessly selfless as we are in doing good for Sandlappers everywhere, the solons could throw us an occasional budgetary bone.

Why, if only some farsighted lawgiver had thought to, say, build us a AAA minor league ballpark on the old CCI property, with a fully stocked skybox for the ladies and gentlemen of the press, we might have joined our sagacious counterparts on the coast and in the foothills, and denounced the cruel pecuniary strangulation perpetrated by that shortsighted penny-pincher in the governor’s office.

But since they didn’t, we continue to take the long view.

The headline on the centerpiece of this morning’s front page, "Fast learners, little Skywalkers are," reminded of a really great thing that happened to me yesterday.

I had gone down to the newsroom to consult with The State‘s main Web juju man, Dave Roberts, about this site. Being informed that Dave was out, I was making my way back through the newsroom when I noticed a knot of elementary schoolers crowded around a reporter’s desk. A tour. I had already passed when I heard my name. Turning back, I was informed that these children were regular readers of my work and would like to talk to me. I looked around, and estimated (accurately, as it turned out) that these were second-graders. Fans of mine? Didn’t seem likely, but I was game.

The teacher standing next to me (Tim O’Keefe, I later learned) looked down at one little girl sitting cross-legged at his feet, and urged her to ask me the question she had just been asking. After a brief look of "Why did you call on me" exasperation, she said (and all quotes herein are approximations; I had no notebook with me): "How come sometimes in the paper there’s this big story about a dog show, with pictures and lots of words, and on the same day something tragic and important happens, but all there is about it is a paragraph?"

Well, it was about all I could do not to bend down and hug her. I am so weary of hearing how in order to survive, newspapers have to lure young readers by dumbing-down their content, stressing entertainment and frivolous features and such at the expense of "boring" hard news.

I just knew there were kids out there like these, and here they were. I was ready to talk to these kids all day. I launched into an explanation about how the flow of news works, explaining that you might have planned to send a reporter and photographer to the dog show for days or even weeks, and on that particular day you had the space set aside for the dog show, and you executed your plan. But then, the "tragic" news develops maybe an hour before you go to press, and the sources are busy and hard to reach, and all you can get of it is a paragraph of information, so you go with that — and if the story is big enough, you follow through the next day. I likened it to having a week for a homework assignment, so you really do that up right, but when the teacher gives you another task to do five minutes before the dismissal bell, you do what you can.

Then Mr. O’Keefe asks why something like a big coal mine disaster would only get short shrift in the paper, as opposed to ongoing coverage of the Michael Jackson trial. After making it clear that I’ve been out of the business of making such judgments for 11 years (since I moved to editorial), so I can’t really speak to recent developments, I tried to answer based on my 20 years in newsrooms before that. I explained the Journalism 101 elements of news play — that you decide based on the factors of interest, importance, proximity and immediacy (I tried to explain those terms in words the kids would understand, but I have a feeling it was unnecessary), and every story has those elements in different proportions. While noting that you won’t catch me following the Michael Jackson trial, plenty of other people have a high interest in it. Same with dog shows; I pointed out that lots of folks call newspapers to say, "Why do you splash all that ‘negative news’ over the front page, when you could be covering my nice dog show?" Different strokes for different folks.

A coal-mine disaster is important — in West Virginia. In South Carolina, we don’t have a lot of coal miners. Nor are South Carolinians in a position to DO much about a coal mine disaster. I contrasted this with the recent boiler explosion that killed a man just down the street from this office. That had proximity, immediacy and interest, and serious importance for South Carolina, since it was the only state in the union that doesn’t to safety inspections of boilers. So we played that story for all it was worth.

Yadda, yadda.

Anyway, as I’m going on, this little towheaded guy has his hand up and waving around, to the point that Mr. O’Keefe signals him to give it a rest, and he gives up. When Mr. O’Keefe says, "Well, Mr. Warthen is busy, and we’ve kept him long enough," I say, "No wait. This young man has a question. What is it, buddy?"

So he says, "What inspired you (those three words are verbatim, as you don’t forget it when a second-grader starts a question with "What inspired you…") to write that letter to the editor (meaning a column) about that man where you said he was ‘not a gentleman — translation: he’s a jerk?"

Well, the grownups all laughed, and someone asked if I was glad I had taken one more question. But I loved it, and just answered him straight: "I was inspired to write that by the fact that the man in question — Rep. Altman — IS a jerk."

"You see," I said, addressing all the boys and girls, "lots of other people had written lots of things about Mr. Altman and what he had said and done, but nobody had pointed out the rather obvious fact that basically, he’s a big, fat jerk. So I thought I should do that."

These kids were great. They’re students at the Center for Inquiry, Richland District 2’s magnet school. I told them they were all going to be great newspaper readers one day, and then corrected myself: "You already ARE wonderful newspaper readers."

Normally, I don’t connect this well with kids this age who are not my own. I find it awkward trying to get on their level. These little Einsteins saved me the trouble by getting down on MY level. It made my day. The only thing lacking was that I wish it had all been on videotape, so I could show it to my good friend Mike Albo, our circulation director. It would have been killer evidence for my side in our ongoing debate about how newspapers should go about appealing to readers, particularly young ones. Sure, these kids were exceptional. But they gave me hope.

I’ve always thought one of the most irritating things about supermarket tabloids is the way they refer to the celebrities that are their chief focus by their first names only. Like I’m supposed to know who these people are on the basis of that, even though a) they often have pretty generic names such as "Jennifer;" and b) I frequently wouldn’t know who they were even if I had their last names. The pictures are generally little help.

But it’s just as well that they don’t list surnames, seeing as how they’ve now gone to picking on me. I mean, this is embarrassing enough without blackening my whole family’s name. Just last night, I saw two of these slurs. First there was a rag called Inside TV that featured a huge mug of a wronged woman (named Jennifer, as it happens) with one of those brave, smiling-through-the-tears expressions on her rather sweet face, accompanied by the screaming headline, "Getting over Brad." Yet I assure you, I have never met the young lady.

On the same rack was Us Weekly. Its cover boasted a vampy shot of a dark-haired stunner with bee-stung lips, shown looking back over her shoulder in a way that said, "You WILL follow me." The headline: "How she stole Brad."

I’ve never met her, either. I mean it. I’m a happily married man, and if these journalistic vermin don’t cut it out, they’ll be sorry. My eldest daughter is a trial lawyer.