Running With Flowers, Or How I Spent My Christmas Vacation

Oy vey.

That's what I have to say about my sprint through Chicago O'Hare the evening of Dec. 23, bridesmaid bouquet in hand, after sitting 40 mintues on the tarmac following an already-delayed flight home out of Montrose, Colorado.

Granted, the flowers garnered several comments from flight crew folk who were likely trying their darnedest to maintain the Christmas spirit despite harried passengers, overcrowded flights, and delays that reverberated for days after Denver's pre-Christmas blizzard shutdown. (No, I had not just married the man sitting in the seat next to me. No, I did not bring the flowers as a gift for the assistant pilot. But that's cool the flight attendant could smell them all the way up in the kitchen galley.) But, the bouquet didn't garner much sympathy when I was desperately trying to figure out if the "gatekeepers" were going to honor my boarding pass and let me catch the last flight home the night before Christmas Eve Day.

Lessons learned:
The days when the flight attendants would helpfully radio over to your connecting flight that you are on your way and would they please hold the plane for you are no more.
Even the pilots get (ticked) off when they have to sit 40 minutes on the tarmac waiting to get into the arrival gate.
Be sure to pack a good pair of boots if flying to a state where there's a good likelihood it will snow.
The every-other-day morning jog in high-altitude mountain air, though tiring, is good prep for the sprint from concourse to concourse trying to make the connecting flight.
When you see a "standby" sign flashing at your gate, after it appears the flight has left, and you've got a boarding pass, be assertive.

Oh, and the most important lesson of all: When flying to a friend's just-before-Christmas wedding, book early and plan to arrive as early as politely possible. You'll be glad later when you realize you've missed a major snowstorm by mere hours. Better that than to miss your friend's wedding, like the groom's best man, because you and your fellow passengers were first forced to land several states away from your destination in an airport your airline (United) doesn't service, told to return the next morning at 8 a.m. to await further instructions (and hopefully travel) only to be completely and utterly abandoned by the flight crew when the plane you arrived on takes off at noon -- without you or your fellow passengers on it, and with no instruction or assurances that your care has been transferred to the fine folks at the (fill in alternate) airline. No, I am not making that up. As relayed from the groom, that's what happened to his suprisingly-calm-under-the-circumstances best man. Did I mention there was not a rental car to be had at this particular airport?

Let's just make this point clear: Were I "on duty" as a reporter working anywhere near that particular airport in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and had heard of this story, I would have burned rubber getting over there to interview the passengers, get them on the front page or feature them as the lead broadcast and subsequently burn up the phone lines to United's administrative offices asking them what kind of INSANE policies EVER PERMIT ABANDONMENT OF PAYING CUSTOMERS!!! During the Christmas season, no less.

Did I say 'Oy vey' yet?

As it turned out, I continued coughing trying to catch my breath from the sprint to the gate, until about halfway through the flight home. I felt a little bad for the woman on standby who was first led to believe she had snagged a seat only to lose it again when I showed up "late." Ah, well, that sort of thing comes with "standby" territory, so I didn't feel too guilty for too long.
But at least I made it home for Christmas Eve Day (even though my luggage did not.)
My condolences to those of you who flew United.

That's the post-Christmas report from the ReD Zone.

How Can a Movie Mend a (School's) Broken Heart?

There are different ways to gauge how good a "based on a true story" film is.
My personal preference -- more like intuition, actually -- is how strong an urge I have to research the real story in news clippings, Internet postings, etc. etc. after I've seen the film. Blame it on the dayjob, I guess. (And yes, I was lucky enough to catch a sneak preview Thursday, along with my sports-loving father and brother.)

"We are Marshall" rolls its credits over news footage, clippings and photos of the real 1970 tragedy, and I had a hard time waiting to finish this posting so I could start Googling as much as I could on the university, the plane crash, and the names of some of the people the film introduces. I wonder which of those photos I'll see again online, and I'm especially curious how Sports Illustrated covered the team and its rebuilding efforts back then.

There's one scene in particular that is simple and yet sticks with me. Marshall's new football coach, Jake Langyel (Matthew McConaughey) and Red Dawson, (Matthew Fox of "Lost") the assistant coach who made a last-minute decision to give his seat on the plane to another man, are watching reels of West Virginia University game footage, hoping to glean everything they can from the team's rudimentary offensive strategy. It's the only offense simple enough their green-behind-the-ears players can master. They're watching the reels inside a darkened WVU film room, courtesy of the WVU coach, after a gutsy, here-goes-nothing pitch he initially laughed off. But the WVU coach's surprising hospitality starts making sense when two WVU players in uniform accidentally barge in. The WVU coach tries to divert them elsewhere a few moments later and when they turn to face him, Langyel and Dawson see an "MU" memorial sticker on the back of their helmets. Rather than avoid the elephant in the room, the WVU coach asks them if they think the colors on the helmet clash (MU's are green, WVU's are blue). Langyel, aware Dawson is too moved to respond, simply states they look "very classy."

To me, those sort of simple, straightforward sentiments keep "We Are Marshall" from becoming a Disneyfied sports weeper, which is not to say that some viewers won't cry watching it. (I'm just not one of them.) I especially salute Matthew Fox for finding the right touch as a man plagued with guilt and grief that he was the sole "surviving" coach. Back then, men weren't free to be Mr. Sensitive, so Fox had a very fine line to walk in order to keep his character's emotions in check, and I thought he walked that line with confidence. David Strathairn, too, is excellent as always. (See "Good Night, and Good Luck.") Strathairn plays the college president, Donald Dedmon, the man who had the depressing job of trying to hire a new head coach for a football program others thought would best be laid to rest with the majority of its team. The thanks Dedmon got for further pushing past his comfort zone by pestering the NCAA to grant Marshall exception so freshmen could play, was a pink slip from the college board.

On the drive home from the screening, other devastating, sports-centered tragedies came to mind, such as the 1961 plane crash that killed the U.S. Figure Skating team, coaches and parents en route to the World Championships in Prague. Or the 2001 auto accident that nearly wiped out the University of Wyoming men's cross-country team, when eight runners - eight! - were killed when their vehicle was struck head-on by a drunk driver. The Sports Illustrated article that ran after the Wyoming tragedy quoted surviving teammates who said runners process everything -- grief, stress, life -- by running. Similar statements have been made by athletes in other sports. Ekaterina Gordeeva, for example, laced up her skates and got back on the ice after her husband and pair-skating partner, Sergei Grikov, died. She didn't stay in the sport forever after; Red Dawson didn't stay with Marshall's football program either, we learn. But those broken hearts started mending, just a little bit, by getting back out there, even when survivors didn't feel completely "ready."

Something about the rhythm of life, and particularly of sports, asks us to keep it going. Serve, return. Pass, shoot. Throw, catch. Breathe, play. Chant, respond. "We are: ... Mar-shall"

Tasting Christmas: A Reprise

This must have been my lucky weekend or something, because not only was I able to taste-test some Williams-Sonoma Peppermint Bark, I also stumbled across
the Ltd. Ed. Hershey's Chocolate Mint Kisses! (You can find them at Target, 2 bags for $8.)

First, my take on the Williams-Sonoma Peppermint Bark: As reported, it is distinctively "chunkier" than the Ghiardelli, the peppermint morsels in particular. However, inside the tin, it comes more as several giant "slabs" of peppermint bark vs. Ghiardelli's individually-wrapped, thinner, finer-grade style selections. Which means, it's up to you, readers, to determine which bark truly has more bite. Do you want to control how much you'll get by putting your own hands around it and breaking
a "chunky hunk" off yourself, or would you rather someone else did the sizing and serving for you? See, even Peppermint Bark has personality.

Now, as for Target, and those Chocolate Mint Kisses, it was fun to find
a nearby shelf was also featuring a two-fer deal, only in that case, it was 2-for-$10 on the Ghiardelli Peppermint Bark sacks, which does beat Wegmans pricing, for those of you looking for the best deals as you go about Tasting Christmas this year.

I remind readers: Get these Christmas goodies while you still can!

Tasting Christmas

Ok, with the new-fallen snow, it is time to review all the Christmas treats I have been trying to stay far, far away from in the last month. (I am determined to knock one of my traditional New Year's resolutions off the list long before the crystal ball drops, and so far, so good.)

But just because I'm not going to indulge as much as I would have in the past, doesn't mean all three readers -- wait, are we possibly up to four yet? -- can't glean any tips from my experience. With that, and apologies to Anne Palumbo for meandering into "Daily Dish" territory, here's what I recommend digging into:

*Wegmans Market Cafe' Candy Cane Mocha. See if your barista will top it off with extra candy cane chips. Yum! A Plan B would be Starbucks Peppermint Mocha. Plan C would be to mix whatever hot cocoa concoction is in the cupboard with a mug of milk heated in the microwave, then add your own Starlight Mint candy drop or mini candy cane and stir like crazy so it starts to melt before you top it off with marshmallows or whip cream.

*Starbucks Cranberry Bliss Bar. I'm pretty sure I have the name right on this one, (it's the one topped with a sweet cream cheese kind of frosting) and if so, it's perfectly named. Bliss in a bite, baby. Or several. It's only available during the holidays. Eat some while you still can.

*Ghiardelli Limited Edition Peppermint Bark squares. Wegmans has them in the multi-square "sacks" (search near the bulk foods/seasonal section) or bars. Hallmark stores sell a pricier version in keepsake tins. I am told by a friend who sampled these that, "yes, they're pretty good, but NOTHING tops Williams-Sonoma's peppermint bark" given it's extra thickness and what sounds like candy cane chunks. Apparently it costs a pretty penny, and I've yet to try some, but I'll take her word for it. As far as this Ghiardelli though, I only bemoan the fact it's a Limited Edition product. I believe this one is my preferred "taste of Christmas" tantalizer this year. Ok, I'll wipe the drool off my keyboard and shut up about it now.

*Celestial Seasonings Candy Cane Lane Tea. Anyone sensing a peppermint theme here yet? What I love about this is that's it's actually green tea and it's actually decaf. Go figure. This could be your Christmas Comfort in a Cup. Enjoy! Find it at Wegmans (of course!)or let's hope, your other local grocers.

*Hershey's Milk Chocolate Kisses. Yes, an All-American standby makes my list. Actually, last year, I loved their special-edition Mint Chocolate Kisses in the green-silver checkerboard wrapper, but alas, I haven't seen them yet this year. But a simple chocolate kiss is still simply divine. And if you want something with a bit more forte to it, go for the Hershey's with Almonds Nuggets in the gold wrappers. I don't know what it is, but the almond rather overpows a tiny Kiss. In the Nuggets, however, the almond meets its match and you can sink your teeth into it.

*Fondue. Chocolate, cheese, no matter. But at our house, at least, Christmas Eve would not be Christmas Eve without fondue. Given the extra effort it generally takes to poke a stick into fruit, bread or other fare, dip it into the heated fondue of choice and get it into your mouth before you have to re-light the gosh-darn Sterno lighter underneath (another weird happening at our house), it is not an understatement to advise you to enjoy every single bite.

*Angel Food Cake topped with raspberries and/or strawberries and (Whip) Cream. Why is this on the list? Well, at our house, birthdays are traditionally celebrated with a cake (although on my birthday, "cake" is translated "raspberry pie.") Anyway, if Christmas is supposed to represent the birth of Jesus, well then, what kind of cake would befit a baby from heaven? Angel Food, of course! This works so well, because after pigging out on candy from the stockings, homemade cinnamon rolls at breakfast, a heavy mid-day feast, etc. dessert really should be a little on the lighter side. And the fruit helps with that, as does the whip cream. Under no circumstances should Angel Food Cake be eaten with ice cream, or you'll lose the "light" effect!

*One navel orange. Preferrably chilled, before being placed in the toe of your Christmas stocking once the house is up on Christmas morning. Why? Well, that stocking needs something round to fill out the toe. Plus, there ought to be something in there to balance out all that candy and provide some nutritional value. On top of which, probably the family bought one of those giant boxes of fruit from Florida as part of the local schoolkids' fundraiser and somehow, it's got to be eaten in a timely fashion. A good ole orange in the stocking, multiplied by X number of stockings per household, and that box of fruit will be polished off in half the time.

So there you have it: how Christmas should taste if you're going to spend it in the ReD Zone.
Save me a piece of peppermint bark, will ya?

Stranger Than Fiction

No, this is not a posting about the Will Farrell movie, although, yes, I did recently see it, and yes, I enjoyed it.

Actually, that old saying, "The truth is stranger than fiction" is what popped into my head in a sort of Deep Thought Moment after seeing "The Nativity Story," the new live-action film that follows much of the Biblical Christmas story, complete with a jealous King Herod, the Virgin Mary, the shepherds and their sheep and (What Many Have Always Assumed To Be) The Three Magi.

I think what most struck me about the film was the reminder how very human these folks were, that they had to toil in a poverty-stricken existence where, nevertheless, some serious social stigmas prevailed. Oddly, or perhaps naturally, given my current career as a journalist, I pictured news headlines for what could have been the Nazareth Enquirer, had such a thing existed back then. "Nazareth leaders aghast at girl's 'miraculous conception' claim" "Family divulges fears"
"Mute priest finally speaks after year of silence" and "Sages seeking celestial sign."

The story gets repeated a lot, yes. Yet somehow, it seems I haven't clued in to the fact that, for that day and age, all the things I just take in stride -- immaculate conception, a herald angel choir singing to sheep herders, Away in a Manger, etc. -- must have been unfathomably shocking. And that's just for those who experienced them! How much harder would it be for the cynical to tolerate, let alone accept or attempt to understand all the impossible things they heard?

I'll be honest: six years in journalism have jaded me far more than I would have thought possible. So it's easy for me to picture the would-be staffers at the Nazareth Enquirer rolling their eyes and muttering "yeah, right" had they been sent out on assignment to cover a young, unwed mother giving gut-wrenching birth in some gosh-I-hope-that's-sanitary straw five feet away from smelly, noisy animals. Can't you just hear the reporter muttering under their breath? "Virgin birth? Um, yeah, is that what kids are calling it these days?"

I mean, what could possibly EVER convince them to put any kind of stock in the stories of some sleep-deprived shepherds whose solitary line of work would generate letters to the editor that begin with: "It was so sad to read about the poor, confused man who thought he saw a mass choir of angels singing in the hills outside Bethlehem the other night. It was even sadder to read of the fellow shepherds that encouraged him in the delusion. Why can't the good people of this community build a center where these vagrants can receive the medication and rest they so clearly need?"

See? A cynical response is so much easier. It takes less effort to dismiss the whole thing, to shun the pregnant teenager, to send the shepherds off for a nap, to assume the astronomers from the Orient got their signs crossed, than to consider that the truth might really be stranger than the wildest fiction you ever thought you'd hear.

It's a lot harder to dismiss though, when the filmmakers are inviting you to see people as human beings and not just characters in a story, no matter how familiar.

Indian Summer Finally Showed Up!

I post the Photos of the Day (taken earlier this year)
in defiance of all things cold, wet and/or white.
Something tells me this independent-minded stalk of corn would quite agree.
Hail the return of Indian Summer!
Seriously, who doesn't love it when it's 64 degrees after Thanksgiving and
you don't even need a jacket when you go for a jog?

This Just In ...

It's official. The D & C reported online tonight that MPN has been bought by GateHouse Media Inc. of Perinton.
Apparently, we, the staff, will begin to learn What It All Means tomorrow at 8:45 a.m.
I'm just sorry the first official word I heard was from a competing newspaper.

Fleming: Go Figure

So, the latest James Bond film, "Casino Royale," opened last weekend and I was the lucky reporter who got to interview moviegoers leaving the screenings and catch one myself, courtesy my soon-to-be-acquired employer, Messenger Post Newspapers. Read the article here, but in the meantime, let me share a little-known fact about beloved Bond author, Ian Fleming:

The same man who created 007 was also creator of "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!" Chitty, of course, is the car that could fly and float, and what kid wouldn't want to daydream along that the family car Pop patched up in the back shed could actually do so? I believe a souped-up version of Chitty showed up in Pierce Brosnan's last James Bond film: anyone remember that disappearing car that zoomed all over the ice? (Technically, I suppose, that could be considered some advanced form of floating.)

Anyway, I don't know about all four of you semi-loyal readers, but I adored the classic children's movie with Dick Van Dyke. Not only are a few of the kitschy songs a bit more catchy than I might admit, but other whiz-bang (for the '60s at least) gadgets and such are also gleefully imaginative. Wouldn't you rather have a whistling Toot Sweet than a plain, old, boring candy cane? Me too.

In a way, it's ironic that a movie clearly celebrating childhood and everything playful and imaginative about it (especially the adults that encourage kids to dream and invent) also served as a bit of a Message Movie. You know what I mean, the kind that wants to impart an Important Lesson Upon Impressionable Young Minds.

And what lesson is it, you ask, that sticks out most in my mind from "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?" Well, that would be the one that Children Should Never Accept Candy From Strangers!!!! "Chitty" (the movie) features one heck of a scary villain who prowls the streets with his prison wagon, trying to tempt little tykes out of hiding with promises of candy for children. Our hero's two towheads fall prey to Mr. Bad Guy, driving home the Message, and then, as I recall, the rest of the movie centers on how Pop and Co. will save them from this evil kidnapper.

The whole thing got me thinking whether parents or public school leaders back in the '60s and '70s ever showed this film to kids with the express purpose of preserving them -- and their teeth, of course! -- from the perils of sugar-laden snacks. Given my 2 1/2 year-old niece's seeming addiction to plain M&Ms, I wonder if a dose of "Chitty" might not cure all candy ills.

Then again, she might end up asking for Toot Sweets for Christmas.

Postcard (2) from the Edge ... of Wildlife

I've really enjoyed getting "out and about" in Blacksburg, VA the last week and on many of my travels I've encountered a
number of animals. (And no, most of them weren't all drunken college students at the football game.)
For example, the sound of rustling leaves yesterday along the Blue Ridge Parkway scared my sister and I near-senseless while we were snapping photos of the sunset. Who can tell if it's going to be a white-tailed deer or a black bear, you know? It could be either, no guarantees. (In our case, it was the harmless deer, two of them actually, but still close enough to give you a scare.)

But on my near-daily walks, most out on the Huckleberry Trail that spans some six miles between Blacksburg and Christianburg, the next town over, I've seen lots of wildlife. Yesterday, a red Cardinal flew right across in front of me - I could practically see the little comb on his head-cool! The trail is also home to countless squirrels, cows (don't ask me which breed-couldn't tell ya), sparrows, and more. Then up on Mountain Lake Road, two large winged pheasants, took their sweet time crossing the road in front of my car. Well, they were either winged pheasants or wild turkeys. They were so big and so close and my memory of the last bird-watching book I thumbed through just wasn't sharp enough to distinguish between the two as I was crawling along in second gear praying I'd reach the bottom of the winding road alive. (I hate roads like that! Trust me, the bird-watching was the only redeeming factor about it.)

But beyond that, I've also seen plenty of Hokie birds. Ah yes, that would be the official mascot of Virginia Tech. If I understand correctly, there really is no such thing as a Hokie bird in real life, and it's some sort of cross between a wild turkey and I'm not sure what else. Or maybe the college used to have some other weird nickname for its mascot until the Hokie bird somehow just took over? Whatever.

Here's the nutty part: These birds are on nearly every corner. Life-size, fiberglass sculpture birds painted wild colors and donated/funded by various businesses. You know, the type we all got pretty used to as part of Horses on Parade, then Deer on Parade, followed by Animals on Parade? Anyway, guess what similar take-pride-in-our-city campaign apparently swept through Blacksburg not long ago? Hokie Birds on Parade. Ok, I'm not sure that's the official name, but that's what I'm calling it. I know a fiberglass sculpture parade when I see it. I've seen a granite-clad Hokie bird, one wearing a tuxedo, another playing bagpipes, etc. etc. Yes, I see y'all rolling your eyes! (Even from 400 miles away.)

The one redeeming trait of these birds is that I am taller than they are -- I think.
Hmmm, it would appear I was mistaken.

Postcard (1) from the Edge ... of Reason

I've found several very cool things in my jaunt down south this past weekend to Blacskburg, VA. Among them, a bevy of shops and cafes on nearly every corner here downtown, a delightful walking/jogging trail (enhanced by the still-lingering colors of VA's fall foilage) to rival my beloved Lagoon Park back home, and — yes! — cheap gas. How does $1.99 a gallon sound when in the cold-hearted "North" we've been paying $2.99 or more in recent history?

But one of the coolest things I've found here was Sunday morning church hosted in, of all places, a restored movie theater downtown. That church would be NLCF, aka New Life Campus Fellowship. The campus in question would be Virginia Tech, home of the Hokies, who kicked some Clemson football butt last Thursday in the ACC, right before my eyes inside Lane Stadium. That was another cool experience— for a mere $10. The college students at the game loved everything loud, colorful, and invigorating, so it should come as no surprise NLCF works to create a similar atmosphere in their services, one where the students from campus will feel right at home.

That meant the rock-concert style music was near-deafening, as played by a kickin' band up on the stage of the Lyric, this adorably-restored 1930's era moviehouse on one of the side streets here in Blacksburg. That also meant the imagery and the references shared in the teaching of the jeans-clad pastor was appropriately of the moment. Hey, the current sermon series features a shot of the "Little Miss Sunshine" gang chasing that darn yellow VW bus with the title "Living the Good Life" over the movie still, so I do believe the phrase "culturally relevant" would apply. The whole thing was just wild, or wicked, depending on which phrase you'd prefer. (And that would be "wicked" as in the "wicked cool" sense of the word.) For all of that, the topic of discussion was the Lord's Prayer, or rather redeeming it from the pre-game high school sports mantra/when-in-doubt-religious plea/rote recitation "thing" it seems to have become. Interesting how the combo of music, deep theological discussion, moviehouse setting, and other quirky amenities all worked together. (For example, the offering, such as it was, was collected in oversize blue plastic bowls that I'll bet get used to serve chips later in the week.) Like I said, the whole thing worked. And the seats were comfy, even though they were missing modern cupholders to hold all the coffee students had brought in. Also interesting, the place was packed, even at 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, when you'd think most college students would still be sleeping in. The Lyric is just a single screen theater, and I'd estimate, with the balcony included, it seats maybe 450? 500? Yeah, I'm terrible at math and worse at estimating crowds, but I'm telling you, the place was packed.

The whole thing got me thinking. Not only was I curious how a similar service might go over with the college/career crowd in Rochester, were such a thing held at, say, the Little, or maybe the Cinema, but I wondered if a moviehouse setting alone is what it takes to hold the attention of the college/career crowd these days. I mean, most of the churches I'm familiar with in the "North" seem essentially clueless about — and therefore devoid of — that particular demographic. Which doesn't make a bit of sense given how many colleges operate in the Greater Rochester region, and therefore how many students, continuing students and those who'd consider themselves still students in mind living and working nearby. But why is it that so many places (by which I mean churches) don't seem to know how to approach, let alone attract say, a twentysomething/thirtysomething, pro-environment, global-minded deep thinker who drinks chai, regularly volunteers with local non-profits, and considers an art show a spiritual experience?

According to its atypical "bulletin," upcoming events for NLCF include a giant tailgate party/ battle of the bands before the next big home football game; invitations to provide photographs, personal writings, sculptures, paintings or other art inspired by one of the "Blessed are the _________" verses in the Bible; and requests for donors to fill shoeboxes with Christmas gifts for underprivileged children in Third World countries, or to help collect items or raise funds to support the daily work of a mission in the Dominican Republic and/or special summer trips students may make there.

I have chai-drinking, globally-minded, deep-thinking friends I am confident would give their right arm to find any organization, let alone a church, that would get them and what they're all about that well.

Maybe this is a weird question to ask in what is akin to an electronic postcard, but ... Anybody else wish you were here?

Baby can't buy this love

(With apologies for an unintended absence far longer than I had anticipated -- Drat! I hate being unable to access high-speed Internet when I'm away from home -- I'm diving back into the ReD Zone forthwith.)

In case any of you missed it a week or so back, the so-called "Runaway Bride" decided she needed more than her alloted 15 minutes of fame and snatched the spotlight again -- by up and suing her ex-fiance' for $500 grand. Seems she just couldn't leave the poor man alone, and let him extract what dignity he could from selling "their" story. (Hello, for the indignities he had to put up with, thanks to her shenanigans, I don't blame him at all for trying to extract something tangible from the relationship. And if that something tangible is green with dead Presidents on it, fine by me. I'm sure men everywhere will be lining up to read his memoir for all the 20/20 hindsight he can provide on what signs indicate it's time to hightail it outta there before the honey starts acting, ahem, out of whack.)

I do believe the poor girl has gotten the Phil Collins/Dixie Chicks number "You Can't Hurry Love" mixed up with "Can't Buy Me Love" as sung by the Beatles (and more recently, my man Michael Buble'). I do believe I feel a song coming on. With my apologies to all afore-mentioned musical artists, here's a sampling of what might have transpired - er, transgressed? - in this star-crossed "duet."

Him:
I need love, love to ease my mind ['cause my dear ex clearly personified the antithesis of that.]
I need to find, find someone to call mine [for starters, anyone who's not her will do.]

Her:
Mama said 'You can't hurry love, no you'll just have to wait. [In Vegas, or well, just about anyplace that's not the wedding chapel or reception hall. A good 5,000 miles or so should do it.]
She said 'Love don't come easy. It's a game of give and take.' [Yeah, he gives up the story to the press, I'll take $500 grand.]

Him:
Say you don't need no diamond ring, and I'll be satisfied. [Heck, you can even keep the one I gave you on bended knee, just please leave me be. ]
Tell me that you want those kinds of things that money just can't buy [like loyalty, or discretion, or well, why not start with good, old-fashioned SANITY?]
'Cause I don't care too much for money. Money can't buy me love. [But at this point, it might go a long way toward salvaging my wounded pride, thank you very much.]

Her:
She said "Trust, give it time, no matter how long it takes. Ya gotta wait!"

Him:
How many heartaches must I stand?
Before I find the love to let me live again? [Or at least live in peace, dignity and relative anonymity.]
Right now, the only thing that keeps me hanging on [is the thought of clearing my name],
When I feel my strength, yeah, it's almost gone -- I remember -- [When I'm making the talk show rounds promoting my book, Barbara Walters will be asking me her famous question: "Was that her cry for help?"]

Her:
"Just, give it time, no matter how your heart must break."
No love, love, don't come easy.

Him:
[You got that right.]

Her:
But I keep on waiting, anticipating
for that soft voice, to talk to me at night
For some tender arms to hold me tight
I keep on waiting, I keep on waiting

Him: [And you'll be waiting forever, as long as I have something to say about it.]

Her:
But it ain't easy. You know, it ain't easy.

Him: [Um, and whose fault would that be, now?]

Her:
Can't buy me love, love. [sniff]
Everybody tells me so.
Can't buy me love, love. No, no, no! [But I think if I could just have enough money to buy some shoes, and outfits, and a ticket back to Vegas, I might convince someone to ignore everything you're going to write in that book, and still manage to land a date somehow. I mean, I still intend to search for Mr. Right and all.]

Him:
How long must I wait? How much more can I take?
Before lonliness [wait a minute, change that to humiliation] will cause my heart, heart to break.
No, I can't bear to live my life alone [But on second thought, I can be alone for quite some time if it means being free from the likes of you.]
I grow impatient for a love to call my own [Dude, ditto.]
But when I feel, I feel I can't go on.
These precious words keep me hanging on: [Permanent restraining order.]


What's really ironic is that "You Can't Hurry Love" is on the soundtrack to the "Runaway Bride" movie featuring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere.

You know, on second thought, if some irrational judge or court somewhere orders this poor man to hand over even a portion of his newfound riches to this deluded girl, it may turn out to be worth every penny.
Good luck, sir.

Would Someone Please Explain ...

...why on EARTH some drivers (I'm certain that 99.44% of them are male) insist on squealing their wheels every time they drive down (or more likely, back up) the City Pier?

For starters, the Pier has a couple of speed bumps, so anything resembling speeding? Um, not a good idea. You want to race? Go to the County Fairgrounds most any Saturday night of the summer and get your fill there instead. Don't forget your wallet.

Beyond that, we have the actual length of the pier itself, which as piers go, is not all that long, so burning rubber and/or revving one's transmission is just pointless given one will be forced to slam on the brakes about 10 seconds or less later. After all, the Pier is, in effect, a dead-end street, even if it does have a teensy-weensy turn-around at one end.

Further, the city cops do make a habit of patrolling that area, especially late at night, so why risk a ticket?

Still further, actual people actually take walks along that pier, or stop to enjoy the view, and/or fish off the end of it, and with the maniacal way some of these idiots are driving, someone's going to get hurt. (And like the appalling way Murphy's Law seems to work, as in the case of alcohol-related driving accidents, it's probably not going to be the maniacal idiot driver that's hurt.)

And the biggest reason not to do it, fellas? Well, contrary to what you seem inclined to hold as "popular" opinion, you don't look (or sound) all macho doing it and we "chicks" remain thoroughly unimpressed, emphasis on thoroughly.

But please, go ahead. Attempt to explain to me why you feel compelled to squeal your wheels.
I could use a good laugh.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

So I'm in the costume store tonight. You know, the one that sets up shop for about 6 weeks in some empty storefront and then clears out of Dodge the day after whatever major holiday it was making a mint off of. (In this case, Halloween.)

So perusing the aisles of clown and fairy finery, the traditional witch, goblin and/or ghost gowns, the obligatory gross-out getups of bloodied body parts, the cowboy-or-Indian conundrum, the Mafia mobsters and such, it was apparent the Pirate and/or Pirates' Wench outfit is this year's Must-Have costume. Yes, Disney, we hear y'all toasting your "Pirates of the Carribbean" franchise with a hearty "har-har," and a bottle of rum. Put a cork in it, ok?

But I wander over to the kids section and oh my word! There is a "Bubble-Gum Singer" outfit that clearly channels Britney Spears, bare midriff and all, and a good 5-7 other similar getups where the little girls modeling the outfit are heavily made-up, miniature versions of Christina Aguilara (ripped black tights, plaid skirt, the midriff AGAIN), take-your-pick American Idol with signature sequined microphone, even a Country Pop Princess (yet again baring an awful lot for a pre-pubescent.) I was, in a word, appalled. The little models can't be older than six or seven. What is the world coming to, when costumers would even consider giving little kids the option of poodle skirt vs. micro-mini? (Or parents, for that matter.)

Seriously, it is just one small step from the Bubble-gum gang to the "Legs'Tra" (or whatever its sexualized title is) collection of "Hot Cop," "Lady in Leather," "French Maid" and other not-so-innocent outfits. Let me say it again: one small step!!! Take a look around people! The clown, fairy and Dorothy-of-Oz costumes are exactly the same, even if in different aisles. Just sized up for adults, sized down for kids. Even Simon Colwell would agree that kids need to "dress like kids" and not 29-year-olds, when they are not even nine yet.

Dressing your daughter like Britney Spears for Halloween is not cute. It is not harmless fun. I ask you, dads, if you're not about to let your precious baby out of the house at 14 dressed like that, why on EARTH would you let her out of the house dressed like that at 4? Her grandparents may think she looks like a "doll" but so might the pedophile who very well could be out on his front porch, passing out candy, just praying for more kids to stop by dressed up in next to nothing.

Scary thought?
It should be.

In Memoriam

We don't publicize this often, but every once in a while, we reporters get to write an article
we have personal ties to. That was the case with the memorial tribute I wrote last week about
Jon Dechau, a guy who graduated two years ahead of me in high school. LCS was a very small school,
so every student knew who every other student was. Still,(and I can't believe I'm saying this)
high school is now more than 10 years ago. So my memories of Jon are fuzzy, limited to his ruddy
cheeks, his then-budding devotion to biking, and the bright yellow Dodge Rampage he drove
(trust me, it was quite the unique car.) The MPN tributes are typically just profiles of
ordinary folk in the community, but it's a bit out of the ordinary when 800-plus people crowd in
for a memorial service. So that's just one more reason why I wished more folks could read it. Hence, this
is now accessible for those who might not have had access to the Sun. Sept. 24 edition. (Note:
This version varies slightly from the print version, as I restored a couple of words that served to
clarify phrasing.) I always want readers to feel as though they've gotten to know someone better
through these tributes, mainly because I've always gotten a taste of their personality just by speaking
with family and friends in the process of writing it. But this one is a little bit different. Not just
because of that personal connection, but because a lot of "ordinary" things about Jon were a little bit different,
a little extraordinary, if you will. Read on.



Jonathan Dechau, the 'ultimate optimist'
The Rushville native is remembered for his smile, spirit and faith.
By RACHEL E. DEWEY
Messenger Post Staff
RUSHVILLE - For years, Jonathan Dechau tried to convince his friend and
fellow cyclist Todd Scheske that Dechau's hometown, Rushville, was "right
on the way" to an East Coast race.
"Just look at a map," the always-positive Dechau would tell Scheske.
The competitive cyclist - "JonBoy" to fellow racers - was 33 when he was
struck from behind by a motorist Sept. 13 while pedaling along the
westbound shoulder of Routes 5 and 20, near Harold Avenue, a few miles
from his Lima home.
Mr. Dechau started riding when his dad, Rick, gave him a BMX bike at age
13. The next year, the two graduated to road bikes and Jonathan began
racing, his dad said. Father and son played baseball, basketball and
hockey together, too.
As a teen, Mr. Dechau biked to his job at the Canandaigua McDonald's and
routinely rode around Canandaigua Lake on Sunday afternoons, his mother
said. In 1991, he graduated as salutatorian from Lima Christian School. By
1993, when he earned a liberal arts degree from Finger Lakes Community
College, he was classified a Category 1 cyclist, the highest amateur
ranking.
Racing at that level for nearly a dozen years, Mr. Dechau was a fierce and
clever competitor who could "time trial like an animal,"  said Scheske,
describing races where Dechau pushed others, including Scheske, to a win.
Mr. Dechau won several Empire State Games and state championships, and had
so many top finishes in time trials, road races and criteriums around the
country, his family literally can't count them all. In 2000, he placed in
the Top 20 at the Olympic trials, and he was planning a pro career with
Noble House Securities when the team's corporate sponsorship fell through.
Still, "he was the ultimate optimist," Scheske said. "You couldn't keep
him down."
Shawn McHugh of Stanley, one of 28 foster children who lived with Mr.
Dechau and his parents through the years, counts himself among many
touched by his welcoming spirit.
"From Day One, Jon treated me as if I was his brother," McHugh said,
adding how much he, then just 14, looked up to him. "He impressed upon me
some life lessons that will never be forgotten, most importantly, that a
life centered around God was a blessing, not a curse."
Even as a teenager, Rick Dechau said, his son carried his Bible to races
and was viewed as a spiritual mentor by those older than he.  "They knew
they could count on him to pray," he said.
Among many of the jobs Mr. Dechau held over the years to fund his cycling
was a two-year stint alongside landscaper Brian Porter of Pittsford. The
two also trained together. Porter is among many who told Mr. Dechau's
family not only of his diligent work ethic, but of frequent calls to
convey encouragement, concern or simple birthday cheer.
"But that was Jon, everything to everyone -always with a big smile, kind
words, and an infectious laugh," Porter said.
"The thing he would say the most is 'God is good,'" said Mr. Dechau's
wife, Debbie, who lived near Batavia and first met him online the night
after she prayed for God to send her someone to help turn her life around.
"He really did bring me a lot closer to the Lord than I had ever been,"
she said. The two were married July 9, 2004.
Mr. Dechau began cutting back on biking to spend more time with her son,
Tyler, and was thrilled when the couple's baby girl, Lillian Paige,
arrived eight months ago.
Every morning, her husband would sing Lily a song he'd made up while he
changed her diaper, Debbie Dechau said, allowing "he wasn't a particularly
good singer" but sang often anyway.
"I try to sing her the same song when I get her up now, just so I don't
forget it and so she'll remember it too," Debbie Dechau said.
Almost daily, he would show off cell-phone photos of Lily to co-workers at
Jim White Metal Products, Inc., where he was learning bidding processes
and administration in preparation to take over his parents' iron working
business.
"He delighted in the littlest things. Something that to somebody else
wouldn't mean diddly-squat just made his day," his mother, Judi Dechau,
said, describing daily phone calls to report Lily cut a tooth or Tyler was
rounding bases at a baseball game.
"He always saw the best in everything and everybody."  

In another unique happenstance, two area web sites, www.buffalophotocd.com and
www.gvccracing.com are just brimming with photos and memories, particularly as
relates to Jon's racing career.  

AP-and-at-'em!

In case you haven't heard by now, the Daily Messenger, the esteemed local paper I write for, has once again laid claim to the state's "Newspaper of Distinction" award from the Associated Press Association. The prizes were handed out Thursday night in Albany.

Never mind. Let me tell you about the shot in the arm this gave many of the Messenger staffers who have been sweating it out the last couple of weeks as touring "suits" march through to take a look at the building, our papers, and property to decide if they want to bid a purchase offer for the company. Let's just say there was no need to drown our sorrows in goat milk this time around. Instead, there was much arm-pumping, hand-clapping, congragulatory yells across the cubicle walls. It was a better energy boost than coffee.

Now, the last time the DM won this award, for the 2004-05 "year," the higher-ups decided to publish a golden banner atop the front page proclaiming "Best Newspaper in the State*" And when you went to the *, you'd read something akin to " for papers with a circulation under 25,000." While it may not sound like much of a compliment, our "classification" is the one with the toughest competition in the state's annual AP awards, because more daily papers fall into that "under 25,000" circulation category than do in the three larger categories (25K-50K, the roughly "above 50K" category and the "above 125K" category). The NY Times and the Rochester D&C compete in the largest category, if that gives you a better idea of the differences. I believe there's something like 5-7 papers in the top category and most are in NYC/Long Island, while there are perhaps as many as 15-20-something in the under 25K category.

Anyway, back to that golden banner. A few of us were wondering if it would begin running again on our front page. But one editor suggested a minor modification, given the circumstances our company is now in. His idea for a banner? "Just try and shut us down now, you (unprintables)!"
He garnered quite a few laughs with that one.

My own personal reaction? "Don't 'Mess' with the Best" (I even briefly considered it for a possible blog post headline.) But that's just because I'm so gosh-darn proud of the work we do around here. And I'm not talking just reporters (although the writing weighs rather heavily with the judges). The editors, page designers, press room technicians, carriers and those in the circulation and advertising departments keep the whole thing working as a well-oiled machine. Without them, great editions like the six-day countdown to Bush visit coverage wouldn't have happened. The commemorative "Worth the Wait" edition published the day after Bush came to Canandaigua wouldn't have happened. (Yes, that was one of the editions submitted for consideration in the "Distinction" award - so thank YOU, Mr. President!) Without those folks, our day-after election edition wouldn't have happened. (We always clean up on that sort of local coverage, if I do say so myself. And yes, that, too, was one of the dates the judges requested.)
Providentially, the other required submission was our paper's annual report on "Sunshine Week," when newspapers tout the highs and lows of the state's Open Meetings Law and its bearing on freedom of the press. Providentially, our "Sunshine" edition was published the day after our Presidential paper, and it was still stocked with lots of leftover George W. Bush coverage.

So, yes, I felt it in my bones that we were going to be named "Best in State" again this year. I was convinced it was a matter of when, not if. And I was even more convinced when the AP wires made the early announcement the Daily Messenger won 10 writing, graphic and photo awards in August. (They always hold the "Newspapers of Distinction" prize announcement until the night of the awards banquet.)

This was definitely a red-letter day at the office. I think I can sum it up in one word:
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

Scene about town ...

In descending order, the various miscellany seen here, there and yonder in my travels this weekend:

70 still life paintings, Oxford Gallery, Rochester: The show is called "Seeing Things" and runs through Oct. 14. My art professor friend had three oil paintings on display, one of which had sold (for $3,200!!) before the reception. Yes, I am slightly ignorant about the whole numbers game that is the world of fine art, but after this weekend, whew! I've had quite the education. Alas, she is already so far beyond my meager budget, I can only window shop her work.
In the slightly-more-affordable category, I much enjoyed "Cumbrian Spring" by Toni Putnam, an encaustic (ie: colored wax) on panel (that was a "mere" $700).
Random thought: What is it, exactly, that inspires some artists to title their works figuratively (for ex: "The Good Egg," "Cheese Trap Act,""Table for Three?" or "Persistance of Conflict") while others stick with the literal (for ex: "Still Life with Japanese Lantern and Stacked Stones," "Anjou Pear," or "Nested Mangos")? I find I prefer figurative, but I would love to know how they choose names for each one.

22 restaurant patrons in the 5 o'clock hour, Sinbad's, Park Ave., Rochester: Also seen, (and consumed) six delicious dolma (aka "grape leaves").
Random thought: If a Mediterranean diet is supposedly one of the healthiest ever, I will happily convert. Hey, I'd even consider doing a "Jared for Subway" type gig for them.

Six scoops of homemade ice cream, atop three cones, Shark's Custard and Candy, Bloomfield.
Any faithful Red Zone reader should know by now it's the best in my book. Time is running out to enjoy it this season. They're only open two more weekends, noon - 9:30 p.m.
Random thought: Would someone please invent a coffee cookie dough ice cream?

Five random fishermen, Lagoon Park, Canandaigua.
Random thought: Are there actually fish to catch in that little outlet, or is it all about male bonding and/or looking "productive" when actually doing next to nothing?

Two seagulls balancing on a board left floating in the water, Canandaigua Lake. I'm not kidding. I saw it with my own eyes.
Random thought: How is that even possible?

One gorgeous pink sunset, spanning Canandaigua Lake, as much a feast for the eyes as
One divine raspberry pie, seductively sitting on my plate at home, was for the palatte.
Random thought: Pink (in all its variations) really is the most delicious shade.

Marking the Moment: Five Years Later

If you read my post on the "World Trade Center" movie, you may recall the reference to the "9/11" documentary filmed by French brothers, Jules and Gedeon Naudet. Well, it aired again Sunday night on CBS, and again, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen.

Only this time, the documentary had the added benefit of an update at the end, touching base with many of the firefighters filmed to see how they and their lives had changed, five years later. The rookie the brothers had originally set out to profile when they began filming at the fire station months earlier had left the "house" to join the terrorism haz-mat (hazardous materials) team. The chief, whose firefighting brother had died in the south tower, is now the head of the operations center, having been promoted a couple times since. Naturally, some of the men had retired. A few had gone so far as to move away from New York City altogether. Survivor's guilt seemed to have plagued many, and as was just hinted at, some may eventually be plagued with a respiratory illness I bet will come to be nicknamed "WTC disease" or some similar 9/11-related moniker . But their stories, their memories resonate just as powerfully. I was still riveted.

I think what struck me most was hearing the French brothers themselves talk about how that day had changed them. Somewhere toward the end of the original footage, you see the members of the company straggling back in to the station, most covered in that chalky ash, cursing in frustration and confusion, then embracing one another. They are silently keeping tally of who has made it back safe and who is still unaccounted for. The Frenchmen were separated too, each with a camera, recording the horror, and each thought the other was dead. Reunited at the station, they too, embrace. Miraculously, every one of the 50 men of that crew survived, though they all lost friends or relatives who had either worked in or near the towers or served in another fire company. And then one of the Frenchmen appears (Jules, I think?) telling how close he now is with his brother. A clip of Gedeon's wedding plays; life has begun moving on for him, too. But even in the wedding footage, you can see the connection; both brothers seem much softer (and not just because one of them is wearing one of those ruffled-lapel powder blue 70's-era suits. Goodness, I hope he liked it because it was "vintage.") You can tell how grateful they are for the gift of one another.

Another indelible: the firm resolution in the firefighter's eyes, their turn of speech, the way you can tell they have chosen, irrevocably, to look back on it with a very specific perspective, or describe it with an unchanging phrase. If the Naudets update this film again in another five years, I know these men will not lose those phrases, that look in their eyes.

It's much like the simple resolution I made rushing out to report on what became the first of many assignments covering what seemed like every possible local angle of the aftermath of that day. Sometime then or in the first few days after, I just made a decision: I'm always going to call it, write it as the Sept. 11 terrorist "attacks." Yes, it was tragic, but "tragedy" wouldn't make the cut. Nor would "calamity" or even "catastrophe." No, it was always going to be "attacks."

I've never been to New York City. I never knew what it was before and what it is now, except for what I've seen in pictures, or moving pictures. Robert DeNiro was standing in front of a beautiful golden panorama, one of the memorials that has been built, to narrate parts of the new clips, the updates woven in at the end of the film. I think that I would love to touch that memorial, read it, soak it in. But if I never get there, that's ok.

I have my own memorial, that one simple word. And I resolve to keep it.
That's how I choose to remember.

Do NOT Feed the Wildlife!

I was going to post this wild-and-crazy dream I had early last week about being taken hostage by the infamous Bucky Phillips and collecting the reward for helping the police capture him.
It seemed funny at the time, and naturally I blame the whole thing on falling asleep that particular night to the chatter on the police scanner (occupational hazard) as another Bucky alert was being called out.

At first, the random scanner broadcasts had me on high-alerts, guessing troopers would catch him as we listened. But then, I confess it devolved into something of a mild amusement because the guy has been on the run the entire summer, and with each successive broadcast over the scanner they seemed thisclose to catching him and somehow he still got away.

But it's not funny anymore.

Somehow, the ever-increasing danger associated with each alert, the fact that he went from being "armed and dangerous" to "armed and extremely dangerous" had just been lost in the repetition of it all. Well, all that changed when I got back in town on Labor Day only to learn that, early over the weekend, this escaped prisoner had ambushed two troopers with one of the high-powered rifles he was believed to have stolen the night the latest alert prompted my stupid dream. One of the officers died of his injuries. He was only 32, and he left a wife and child behind.

Now I'm nowhere close to amused; I'm angry.

See, there's been a bunch of local yahoos down Southern Tier way that have reportedly been aiding and abetting this particular fugitive. I'm sure they would swear they haven't actually helped him, but I daresay hawking "Got Bucky?" t-shirts and eating so-called Bucky burgers is going to go a long way toward turning the suspect into some warped version of a local folk hero. That makes it a lot harder for the police to reinforce the image of what this man truly is: a murderer and thief on the run from justice.

The yahoos helped create the very environment in which a few dim-wits have gone so far as to literally assist Bucky in eluding capture, reportedly by leaving him food, supplies, and likely unlocked backwoods cabins etc. to hole up in. It eerily echoes one particular episode of "Numb3rs" from last season where a small town turned tracking a fugitive into a near-cottage industry. Reportedly, the weekend shootings were "retaliation" against troopers who dared to intercept and interrupt relatives and/or others believed to be giving Bucky a helping hand.

People! Have you learned NOTHING from shows like "Wild America" or even "Dateline?"
Do NOT feed the wildlife! (Or in this case, the Wild Man.) Bears, mountain lions and other wild animals, even raccoons, cannot be domesticated. They cannot be placated. And letting them help themselves to scraps, garbage or what-have-you is only asking for trouble in the long run. Because pretty soon, the garbage and the scraps cease to satisfy them, and before you know it, it's like they've taken over. They come right up on front porches or break through screen doors to help themselves to whatever's in the refrigerator ... or the baby bassinette. And then a whole town is held hostage by the beasts.

So no one should be surprised that kids in Chautaqua County schools are spending recess inside, that motorists are being delayed at checkpoints, that hunters may be facing cancellation of the shooting season. Such is life when a suspected murderer is on the lam in one's own backyard.

If the yahoos don't like living under such restrictions, they ought to consider burning those t-shirts and calling for the man's capture instead. I'm not kidding.

Clearly, neither is Bucky Phillips.

Yes, Virginia, silly studies still exist

Oh my word! Breaking news!
Brace yourself, now.

Researchers have found that girls learn better from female teachers and boys learn better from male teachers. Apparently, a teacher's gender makes a world of difference.

It appears that, in classroom settings, girls can be intimidated by male teachers and can view whatever subject is taught by the man as likely irrelevant to their future. This makes the girls less likely to say, raise their hands or answer a question in a man's classroom. And on the flip side, female teachers will tend to see boys as disruptive nuisances, where a "chatty" girl might not get in so much trouble with her.

I'm not even kidding. I got a whole long press release on email this week from some organization, or maybe PR firm working on its behalf, to shout the findings in 48-point font.

Yes, you read it here first. Real people actually wasted breath and time and I'm sure, taxpayer money, to inform of us of something they assume we couldn't possibly have known, since, oh, maybe KINDERGARTEN!!

I can just hear my Grandpa "harumphing" now, asking who's the dad-blamed idiot that paid somebody to look into all that when he, or just about any random individual, could've told 'em the exact same thing. I'm confident he would have objected to these sort of "research" trends in the so-called "scientific" community.

I think more grandfathers should be consulted for their Two Cents when it comes to stuff like this. Goodness knows, it would sure be cheaper.

You, Me and Why I Couldn't Cry over "WTC"

Since the computer ate Erich Van Dussen's homework, I'm going to make some confident, educated guesses as to why he didn't like World Trade Center. I'm sure we're on the same page, 'cause I wasn't crazy about it either.
Let me preface this entire argument by saying I have seen both United 93 and WTC. The former is all about the flight of the same name, the fourth and final plane to crash on 9/11, brought down, as we best know, by passengers attempting to wrest control from the terrorists before they could hit their presumed target, D.C.'s Capitol building. The latter is not so much about the collapse of the two World Trade Center towers as it is about two New York Port Authority officers trapped in the rubble and how they helped each other stay awake, and therefore alive, until their rescue.

I saw United 93 in May, with my brother, who is a history teacher and wanted to be able to intelligently communicate the cultural touchpoints with his students. By the end of the film, it was all I could do to keep my sobs (and I do mean sobs) quiet enough so as not to bother others in attendance, many of whom I could hear sniffling and/or quietly weeping nearby. I had brought along a huge wad of tissues -- just in case -- and went through every last one. As the credits were rolling, and I continued to sit there in complete devastation, I remember him patting my shoulder or arm or something, in an attempt to comfort me. It didn't work. On the ride home, I told my brother I could have sat in that theater for another half hour after the screen went dark and sobbed until I was spent. In fact, that is exactly what I would have preferred to do. But I worried that even though the next screening wasn't for several hours, someone might kick me out, or worse, speak to me. So I tried to do the well-mannered thing, and went to the ladies' room to wash my eyes with cold water. I saw another woman in there attempting to do the same. I didn't have to ask what she had just seen because, clearly, it wasn't Pirates of the Caribbean: DMC. We didn't speak. We didn't have to. Personally, I felt words would have tarnished the shared connection.
So when my brother caught an early screening of WTC, he reported back that he was sure I would cry worse than I had at United 93.

He was wrong.

Not only did I not shed a single tear, and not even open a single tissue, (despite being well-prepared again), I left knowing exactly how to describe the film. That's not a good sign when United 93 so completely wrecked me I literally couldn't settle on even one adjective to accurately sum it up. Months later, I'm still not sure how to describe it. Devastating? Incredible? Resonating? Powerful?

And it's not that WTC is a terrible film. Not by any stretch. It's well-made, well-shot, well-written, doesn't run too long, and is probably the closest thing to a "feel-good"
movie that could possibly come out of the horror of the 9/11 attacks. (Did Erich or some other critic say that already?) But here's my bottom line: I don't ever want to feel good about the 9/11 attacks. As one character notes, quoting from, of all things, "G.I. Jane" (Yeah. Go figure.) "Pain is good. It lets you know you're alive." In a similar fashion, I see United 93 as the film version of Darryl Worley's country song "Have You Forgotten?" It's a gut-checking reminder of why American troops are over in the Middle East right now, no matter what people think of exactly how we got there or everything that's happened since. And before anyone descends into a political pit of polarization, back to the films.

Here's what doesn't work in WTC:
To begin with, it's poorly titled. It is only set inside the rubble of the World Trade Center, and because it focuses so narrowly on just the two officers, and by extension their families, and not the thousands of others who died there, titling it World Trade Center is quite misleading. Plus, there's minimal time spent on the towers, the hits they took from the planes or their collapse. My suggestion? "Will to Survive"

Second, there's a lot of distractions. Nicolas Cage's mustache, for starters. (I hate that look on him.) Then, there's his accent. To which I add Mario Bello's accent. (But I loved her haircut: quite motherly, yet still stylish.) Only Michael Pena came across as having a natural accent. But then, why didn't Maggie Gyllenhaal seem to have one at all? (Cute maternity outfit, by the way.) People, when you are sitting in a theater asking yourself these questions as a "big, important" film is playing, it's not a good sign.
By contrast, United 93 had no such problems, not with a cast of complete unknowns, where the only questions to distract you were: Is that the "Let's Roll" guy or the other one? Now, what did I read about him? Oh my word, the military flight headquarters were in Rome, NY? That's practically next door!

Third, is the larger question: What about the film is going to stay with you? What images or lines will be forever imprinted on your brain? The films you can instantly answer that question, those are the keepers ... and I daresay, the ones that, over the years, rise to the top of the "Best of" lists. (Just try it with, say Saving Private Ryan, or Braveheart or Bridge over the River Kwai or Rabbit-Proof Fence. See what I mean?)
Stream-of-consciousness as I left WTC? "That was pretty good. Good themes, strong focus on family and responsibilities and duty and keeping commitments ... the Starsky and Hutch song really broke the tension there ... that Pezzulo guy and the other one was kinda cute, and where have I seen that Marine guy before? Gosh, I'm hungry. Hmm, there's a lady crying. Why am I so unmoved by this? Is there something wrong with me? "

As I left United 93? "I don't ever want to hear that Arabic prayer again. That was so chilling to have it play over the shots of city traffic. I can't believe that was that airline overseer's first day on the job. What a way to start. Oh my word, that couple leaving messages for their kids for where to find their wills? That one lady passing her cell phone to the girl so she could call her Mom to say goodbye? That was awful. I'm not sure I ever want to see this film again ... but I'm never going to forget this."

I believe I have made my point here. (Though I'm sure Erich would have made it in far fewer words. What can I say? I'm a detail girl.) While I won't go so far as to tell you not to waste your money on WTC, I will say, if you have a choice, choose United 93, especially if it is still playing in a second-run theater near you. (I fear some of its power might be lost on a smaller screen, where a remote control would make interruption permissible.)

Beyond that, if you want to see the real World Trade Center movie, rent the documentary 9/11 by French brothers Jules and Gedeon Naudet. It's just as unforgettable as United 93.

Maybe that's the adjective I've been searching for.

Drowning our Sorrows in Goat Milk

So, what exactly do co-workers do to commiserate on the day they find out the company they have worked long and hard for is being sold? Why, cheer on a colleague in a goat-milking contest, of course!


Performing arts, it is not. Glamorous, it is not. But by golly, it's different and unusual, and for a time, it helped take our minds off that scary "What's going to happen?" question. Well, for eight of us, at least.

So, there we were, the mini-Messenger gang, at the Wayne County Fairgrounds in Palmyra, deep in the heart of what one reporter calls "315er" territory. (She says it with an affectionate condescension.) We had brought along our "Go for the Goat!" signs, our cameras, and stadium-style face-posters (Photoshop meets popsicle stick) of our grinning community editor, Steve.

When he was finally called to the center of the tent to compete, we cheered him on, waved our "Steve-heads" (picture the J-Mac sign President Bush took home when he came to town last March) and in general, stirred up as much attention as we could. Luckily, Steve is a good sport about it all. He even posed for some pictures for a Wayne County paper, surrounded by a few of his screwy co-workers, and several of the signs and "Steve-heads." (And no, we had not been drinking.) Though Steve didn't milk enough to garner a gift basket, he was briefly in the running for the second round. (Would the proper term be "milk-off?")

After the competition, most of us debated ramifications of the company's sale further over chicken barbecue, funnel cakes, and Pepsi. (And no, no one drank the goat milk.) We didn't solve the problems of the world, and we certainly didn't solve our company's quandary, but we enjoyed hanging out as fellow staffers, in it together.

My co-workers rock, and I can only hope there's plenty more odd-ball activities in the coming days, weeks?, months? where we'll have more chances to support each other like family. Goodness knows we'll need it.

But it was fun. Really. Right up there with frying an egg on the hood of another editor's pickup truck on the 100-degree day we recently had. If we had to drown our sorrows in anything, a goat-milking contest was definitely the way to go.
Bottoms up!

Another Tuesday, Another Temptation

It's Tuesday again! Which means, another sneak peek at this week's Van Dussen review. (I was working later than I should have at the office today, and was about to leave, but no! There was the movie page, in my mail slot. Of course, I stayed the extra few minutes to proofread it.)

Tuesday also means the weekly re-opening of my favorite local ice cream haunt, Shark's Custard & Candy, which, for all you not-so-local yokels out there is over Bloomfield way, on Routes 5 and 20. Right when I got out of college, I briefly "temped" as caretaker to an elderly man who once worked as a quality control "technician" for Sealtest. It was a lot of fun to watch Ray dig into ice cream. His favorite was Breyer's and he would rattle off a whole list of reasons why, though I never came to care for it. (Too granular, plus it has a nasty habit of melting in a hurry.) But I must say I could definitely relate to the man as a connoisseur. He knew how to enjoy the stuff, and I'm sorry he never had a chance to visit the then-Custard & Candy. I'm sure he would have become a new fan.

Anyway, Shark's is all about the homemade, hard ice cream. They perfected chocolate butter fudge, and in my opinion, cookie dough, but I always find myself veering towards the coffee or mocha chip, or sometimes, peppermint. I've never been wild about nuts or peanut butter, but I know others in my family love their butter pecan, peanut butter cup, and one of my friends and co-workers is a huge fan of the black cherry, too.

There are some fun Shark's traditions, which, after many a summer night spent there, I will share: 1) What's that hiding at the bottom of your waffle cone? Ta-da! The mini marshmallow is the secret to avoiding the proverbial ice cream drips. 2) Standing in line there is practically an art form as you torturously choose which flavors to mix and match. Anticipation is half the fun, which also leaves plenty of time for ... 3) mini spoon samplers of the special of the week. My faves so far this summer? Key Lime Pie and Cake Batter. 4) At Shark's, chocolate "chips" do not exist -- only chocolate chunks.

My own personal traditions include late-in-the-week afternoon jaunts over with the "girls" from work, usually to celebrate someone's birthday. For a while there, I also got in quite the habit of taking new friends or simply friends to whom C&C was new to, there for a tasting. I've sworn it's the best homemade ice cream this side of the Mississippi. (Not like I could prove that scientifically, or would even care to, but it sure rolls off the tongue and sounds important.) Somewhere around 80 "newbies" I stopped counting. I'm sure it's long since passed 100.

Back in the day, original owner John Haluch was pretty renown for massive scoop sizes big enough that even my Texas cousins were in awe. I will forever remember the picture my Mom snapped of my cousin's husband hoisting a 4-or 5-- scoop cone, which naturally he couldn't finish. Back then, it probably only cost him $3 or so, which these days, gets you a "small" which is still more than plenty. John's nine-scoop banana split finally left the menu because a) it took, like 10 minutes for the staff to create and b) nobody could finish it anyway. At least not solo. Once upon a time, I shot a photo series of two friends working their way through it. They said they had plenty of room, but the pictures didn't lie. They were both clutching their stomachs in the last frame, looking at the empty dish with a what-have-I-done? expression. Classic.

I really like what co- owners Lynn and Diana, who took over a couple years ago, have done with the place. They expanded the hours, expanded the season, expanded the patio and really carried the Shark theme out. (I've always been a fan of themes.) My two-year-old niece loves the giant fish tank, and driving by late at night, you can see it, gleaming neon blue, from the road. Of course, the signature ice cream recipes are all the same, which makes it hard to avoid temptation and stick to my somewhat-new, striving-to-be-healthy "rule" of only visiting once a week. But life without that ice cream would be poor life indeed. ;)

But don't take my word for it. Taste and see for yourself!

On Headlines (Or how does Van Dussen do it?)

Ah, it's Tuesday!
Tuesday, when I am the lucky girl who gets to proof the movie page at the Messenger for the coming Sunday's Freestyle section. Little-known "secret": Sunday's Freestyle section is printed the Wednesday prior. Meaning, all proofing is done Tuesday and Wednesday. Meaning, I get to read Erich Van Dussen's review of the week several days before the rest of the world. Did I mention I was lucky?

Here's what I love about Erich, whether or not I always agree with his takes on any given flick.
Somewhere in that review, I know I am going to chuckle. If it's a low-number loser, I am guaranteed to laugh even more. And the man can write headlines with the best of 'em.

I mean, c'mon, you can't help but grin at a cheeky one like "Scum like it hot" (Miami Vice) or "Luke - Up in the Sky" (No. Not Superman Returns, but My Super Ex-Girlfriend).
And "Fear and clothing" (The Devil Wears Prada) gets an A-plus as my most recent personal favorite.

He's been writing reviews for our Sunday paper at least as long as I've worked there (nearly six years now) and even the cutlines (aka, captions) on the photos are hysterically creative.
"Matey, Matey Not" is the start of the description of the movie still featuring Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom for Pirates 2. Under a photo of the new Superman actor: "The sky's in love with you"
Face it. He can be downright punny.

I am completely jealous, of course, because I would love to be paid to watch movies, then write about them. Erich does so well, I've no hope of ever claiming his job, so I dream instead of replacing Richard Roeper. Seriously, doesn't "Roger and Rachel" just roll off the tongue?
The only problem with being a movie reviewer, as opposed to a simple movie buff, is that you have to watch so many bad films. Well, that and horror and/or slasher flicks. Breathe easy, Van Dussen. It'll never happen, because I don't do horror or gore.
My college townhouse mates can attest: I couldn't even stay in the kitchen and listen to "The Shining" play from the other side of the wall. Yes, that would mean both volumes of Kill Bill were definitely not on my list of must-see movies. I did manage to make it through The Sixth Sense, but only while every light in the room was on, friends and family were standing at the ready, finger on the remote, in case I needed them to fast-forward through something especially gruesome, and I was allowed to ask whatever question I wanted, at any given moment. (Good thing they had all seen it before.)
It was probably a sign when, as a fifth-grader, I had nightmares for a week that the Beast That Worked For the Nothing from the NeverEnding Story was hiding in my closet.

Yeah, me and horror/slasher flicks are just about as do-able a combo as me and roller coasters. If it weren't for the stomach-plunging, G-force gyrations and the absurd heights, I'd be fine.
But that's another blog for another day.
For now, I'll be content to remain a rabid reader of Erich's reviews (and headlines.) Especially when I get my own sneak peek on Tuesdays. :)

Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

I'm sorry, but I just have to say something about the debut of Sunday Night Football on NBC.

It felt fake.

There was John Madden in his pale yellow Hall-of-Fame jacket, all dressed up with -- let's face reality, people-- no authentic place to go. And there was Al Michaels trying desperately to pull the wool over America's eyes with a They-swore-this-peas-in-the-pod sportscasting-duo-would-help-a-copycat-show-pass-for-the-original, -they-did!-they-did! spiel.

I don't care what they call it, who they put on, or how closely they can replicate it and still not get sued for broadcast plagiarism. It ain't the real thing, baby. And frankly, ESPN's version won't be the real thing either, primarily because, Hello! It'll be aired on the wrong network.
Yes, we are talking Monday Night Football, the beloved, FREE American tradition that has now gone the way of the Edsell, the eight-track, and apparently, five-channel analog TV. (Yes, I am old enough to remember a time when there was only CBS, ABC, NBC, PBS and a pre-cable Fox, or was it technically UHF?)

Will it keep the theme song? Will each show still get a highly creative, water-cooler-caliber introduction? I'll never know, because I'm sticking with my five channels, thankyouverymuch. But I bet that transferring ownership of such a renowned staple can bode no good. Now, instead of one great show once a week, we'll get watered-down bits and pieces: a sportscasting legend here, an fX trick copied there, and no one show will be able to rise to the top.

Sure, we can still get a virtual glut of free football broadcast coverage on Sundays, but for so many of America's living rooms (especially my father's) to be dark on Monday nights ... It's just wrong. Besides, with gas prices already killing the family budget, this football-tax-in-disguise thing is so not cool.

If they can mess with Monday night, (and thereby, Sunday, too) what are they going to ruin next? Mom's apple pie?

If Ignorance is Bliss ...

...then the "In Your Dreams" award of the week goes to Paris Hilton for making
the following absurd statement:

"There's nobody in the world like me. I think every decade has
an iconic blonde like Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana and right now, I'm that icon."
Little-Miss-CAN-Be-Wrong told the Times of London.

Look honey, you may be thin, rich, and by some people's standards, beautiful, but here's
what separates the blondes from the iconic blondes:
A) Talent. Marilyn Monroe actually could act. Goodness knows, she would never
have stooped to staging a "reality" show where a lack of tact, good manners
and common sense would be so glaringly in evidence. The same principles
would almost certainly have applied to any propositions she received to
record a sex video. Do I need to go on?
B) Grace and Compassion. Princess Di crusaded for worthy causes, globe-trotting from
hospital to hospital, not only visiting sick children or land mine victims, but embracing them
 ... and I don't mean in the figurative sense alone. (And by the way, "figurative" doesn't
have anything to do with the female form, Paris.) And heavens knows, it takes a massive
measure of  grace to live inside a royal cocoon, mother two boys also constrained inside it,
and figure out how to navigate life when your every word and deed is microscopically examined,
then re-broadcast to the world. (Especially, when that macro-publication is not your choice.) 
C) Intelligence. Dear me, where do I start on this one? You know what, never mind. [Sigh.]

Blonde, you most definitely are Paris. I'll give ya that one. But iconic??! 
Oy vey. Not in the way you're thinkin', honey.

All Stood Up, But Still Smilin'

They say all's well that ends well, and Friday's Johnny Mathis's concert at the Shell ended VERY well. I must say I most enjoyed the Brazilian-themed numbers he performed near the end of his show. His guitarist did an exceptional job on "99 Miles from L.A." and "Twelfth of Never," too and spare instrumentation never sounded so rich.

But yes, (or should that be, no?) Johnny did not take me (us) up on the offer of an outing while he was in town. (Sigh). Once I got to the Shell and saw the size of the orchestra performing (and therefore traveling) with him, I understood why. There were approximately 30 other people on stage with him, to say nothing of the touring and technical staff I'm sure was somewhere in the wings. And gracious and genteel though he was in his interview with me, I noticed he does not do a lot of "sharing" from the stage, and actually speaks very little between numbers. Some of those numbers were medleys of his standards, and by combining them, he effectively shortened his musical sets (in what I'm assuming also conserves his energy at that age) yet still delighted the crowd by covering a good portion of his this-is-what-I'm-known-for songbook. He looked downright comfy on the stage, sporting a neon orange and green "fun" tie with his tan suit and golf-style loafers in the first act, and a white-on-white suit with what I believe were K-Swiss sneakers in the second act.

On pure pitch, tone, and vocal control alone, I daresay it was evident the man is still taking music lessons at the age of almost-70 -- and good for him! (Yes, he mentioned that in the interview.) He hit a couple of high notes head on, though they may have been a bit less intense than in his younger years. But if the biggest revelation from the stage was how "mad" he is about golf, (it was just so charming the way he said it!) then clearly, this is a man very careful to define, delineate and and put distance between what's professional and what's personal.
Or, he was really busy. But I think it was the former.

Sure, a little part of me was sort of hoping for the tinsiest mention of his unique invitation from the stage, but given his reserved presence, I figured out pretty quickly that wasn't going to happen either. In any case, he sang beautifully, and it sure was fun listening after having had the chance to interview him ahead of time. Naturally, I was probably one of the youngest in attendance, but so what? It was a nice throwback to the ole WISH-95 days (anybody remember that radio station?)

Oh well, if I couldn't have a date, at least I'll always have his voicemail message. ;)

So far, ... solo

Ack! It's coming up on three days until Johnny Mathis comes to town and I still haven't heard back from either the man himself or any of his managers whether he's going to take me (us) up on the offer of an outing.

As of right now, the only thing I do know is that I haven't won tickets to MPN's illustrious box seating for his concert Friday. (The company has been holding near-daily raffles for seats to each of the shows down at the Shell this season.) I must say, if it comes down to the date vs. the concert, I'd rather the date ... 'cause any ole soul can snap up a seat at a concert. Seriously, wouldn't "once dated a celebrity (wink, wink)" make for a fun ice-breaker introduction at just about any public function? :)

Anyhow, the fine folks at Shark's Custard and Candy are prepped, as are the Wine Center crew, so it's just a game of wait and see. Though I could do with a bit less waiting and a bit more seeing.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh,
Somewhere, ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I --
I took the one less traveled by ..." - Robert Frost
(Question is, will this "road" be the one that made all the difference?)

Worried whether my Chances Are ...

I've done the unthinkable. Well, more like the unthinkable for me.

I broke one of my cardinal rules and asked a guy out on a date.

Now, granted, I knew it was a long shot, but this man is dashing, debonair, and frankly, delightful to talk to. Plus, he can sing. And I mean, like, really sing. (Sigh.)

I was on pins and needles waiting for him to call. And then, when he called before I expected and left a message apologizing that he'd missed me, I had to forward the voicemail to several friends for analysis. (You know how that goes.)

When we finally did connect live and in person, there were so many other things to talk about, legitimate reasons for the call, you know, that it was hard to get to the point.
I've gotta say, after this, I have a newfound respect for men. It's really hard to slip a personal invitation into casual conversation without appearing desparate or possibly mental, on top of which, once you do manage to stammer it out, it's hard to convince the person on the end of the line you're actually serious.

Especially when that person is a celebrity the likes of Johnny Mathis.

Yes, that Johnny Mathis. Mr. "Chances Are ... your chances are awfully good" or, as it appears in my case, Mr. "Chances Are ... your chances remain to be seen."
See, Johnny Mathis is going to be singing at the Shell next Friday as part of his 50th Anniversary Tour. And the task of reporting on that appearance fell to me. As you might guess, odds of landing an interview with a well-known musical artist are pretty long to begin with, but somehow I beat those odds. And while most of what you have and/or will read in this posting will seem to completely contradict the last comment I made about the Shell's lineup this year, I reserve the right to make an exception to my own initial rule(s) of thought. (I'm a female; I'm allowed.) Besides, I've liked his music ever since my late paternal grandfather passed down his vinyl LP of Johnny's "Merry Christmas" album back in the day. (The Dewey family Christmas would not have been the same without that record.)

Anyway, in the process of preparation for the interview, I and a few other Messenger staffers observed Johnny Mathis used to have quite a tradition of sightseeing at whatever area he visited to get a bit of a flavor of the community there. So another co-worker virtually dared me to ask him if he'd like to come get ice cream (at Shark's Custard and Candy, naturally) when he's in town. Given that I generally respond promptly to similar dares --"Hey Rachel, will you go ask [our executive editor] if he'll spring for pizza?" -- it should come as no surprise I took her up on it. I mean, what the heck? It's not like this chance was coming around again, plus I am proud of my little tradition of showing Shark's off to visiting friends.

For a musical celebrity however, you've gotta have a Plan B for a date, which in this case is the new Wine and Culinary Center in town. (Personally, I think chances are a little better for that option, given Mr. Mathis enjoys gourmet cooking in his spare time.) Frankly, when asking a celebrity out, you've also gotta have a Plan B for the invitiation itself (Remember that whole "convince them you're serious without appearing mental" struggle?). In this case, that means my fax detailing the "taste-seeing" invitation is now sitting somewhere in a stack of communiques Mr. Mathis is scheduled to review. Right now, I'm just happy it's gotten through in one piece (or so one of his assistant/managers tells me.)

The other thing that makes this whole scenario unique is that the date itself, should it ever take place, won't be your conventional "date" either. No, in the realm of celebrity dating, ReD Zone style, my date with Johnny Mathis will actually be a group date, as five of my fellow reporters (we're all female) hope to tag along. Plus, despite the appearance of safety in numbers, I'm sure his manager, publicist, and probably a photographer (maybe one of ours?) would insist on coming too. So it's not just me who's left to take a wait-and-see approach. It's nearly every staffer with a cubicle in what we've affectionately dubbed "Reporters' Row."

Stay tuned and I'll let you know exactly what my (ok, our) Chances Are ...!!!

On puddles and pencils

Somewhere on this beautiful, rainy night, a poor, sodden soul is trudging along Route 364, trying to hitchike his or her way out of the weather that completely crashed the party over at the Shell's first concert of its new-and-yet-somehow-not-so-improved season.

I will not even pretend to care about what kind of music is played by a group that goes by a name like "Rat Dog" or "String Cheese Incident" or how overpriced their tickets were at the new-and-improved venue that I will eternally insist on calling what it has been, is and forevermore shall be: the Shell. But I was happy to see a nearly full parking lot, and even two scalpers hawking tickets at the gas station on the corner. It triggered memories of the good ole days when Dave Matthews and Phish and Lilith Fair and the Barenaked Ladies took over the town, plaguing traffic up and down the major highways, and playing loud enough to hear the music all the way over on 5 and 20. Too bad opening night had to be ransacked by the rain.

I dare say Mother Nature was voting -- or would it be more accurate to say venting? -- her opinion on the musical lineup this summer. You'd think after a $10 million renovation, the place might pick up some business, but apparently we've all got another think coming on that one. I don't mean to imply that this season holds a lame lineup, but it's just so frustratingly similar to the lineups of the last 3-4 years, during which attendance has plummeted. I mean, let's face it: there are no American Idols, no Yo-Yo Mas, no one in the league of Eminem or 50 Cent, no Kenny Chesneys, and no Michael Buble'. I adore the RPO, and the 1812 Overture/Cannon/Fireworks night is an annual staple that makes the Shell the Shell. But it can't make up for the "gotta be there" headliners that don't seem to be there anymore. So maybe the rain was appropriate.

Speaking of, I got caught in the torrential downpour, and despite the parking space one row over and four slots up, despite the umbrella, by the time I made it inside Wal-Mart, I might as well have gone straight to the domestics section to buy a towel. I was the quintessential wet noodle.

But then, oh my word, rain and soggy shoes were forgotten, because there it was, between the card section and the cans of Koolaid. Stacks and stacks of No. 2 pencils, and Bics, and Crayolas and whatever is passing for a Trapper Keeper these days, not to mention the all-important wide-ruled spiral notebook.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but did we not just wrap up high school graduation weekend less than 15 days ago? So what is with this rush to get the boatloads of school supplies out? (Added an older, wiser woman I know: And why does the Dollar Store have the Christmas decor out already?) Wait. Don't tell me. The "Christmas in July" sale, right? I guess that's supposed to explain all the marketing madness.

Or maybe the full moon does.

Sunset Serenade

There is nothing, and I mean nothing like a sunset at the lake on a balmy summer evening. The proof is in the picture (yes, I shot it myself). I couldn't post it until I found the perfect line of verse to parallel the mood at the time I shot it, and finally, inside a new-to-me volume of Sara Teasdale's poetry --she's my favorite!--there it was: "Spring Night." While the title may not seem apropos given we're in summer here, trust me, she's completely channeled the vibe.

"The park is filled with night and fog,

The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
Are dim and pearled.

Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
Gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights like sunken swords,
Glimmer and shake.

Oh, is it not enough to be
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
Should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
O, Beauty are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love,
With youth, a singing voice and eyes
To take earth's wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied,---
I for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,---
I, for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
O, beauty are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?"
-- "Spring Night" by Sara Teasdale