What a Difference a Week Makes

Whew! Talk about whirlwind changes.

In ReD Zone news, your faithful narrator has, as some in the media family like to say, "gone to the dark side." Translation: When a reporter/broadcast journalist etc. takes a new job in some sort of marketing/promotions field and stops fielding/scouring press releases and coverage requests and starts pitching them.

In the last week, I wrapped up production on "my" Brighton-Pittsford Post weekly paper, and rather quickly shifted gears to a new position at Sonnenberg Gardens, managing the special and private events scheduled throughout the season. So far, it's been fun getting used to working at a local tourist attraction (and for me, emphasis is, as per usual, on the LOCAL part of that). A former MPN colleague was actually back in town last weekend, and took a quick, first peek around the grounds. I was not at all surprised to hear the visit followed up by "this is such a great area, look at all the neat things around, etc. etc." And naturally, I couldn't agree more.

So, lucky me, I get to promote the local happenings at a revered local attraction -- as creatively as possible (oooo, fun!) -- and maintain the ties with my MPN colleagues all the while. And what kind of journalist "vet" would I be if I didn't give them the scoop first? (Not one proud to hang her hat in ReD Zone range, lemme tell ya. And yes, I have several hats ... more on that in another post.)

But yeah, there was a bit of head-spinning happening last week. Two days at the paper -- imagine trying to tie up seven years of loose ends, oy! -- one day to catch a breath, then two full days and another half-day in the new post. Whew! Squished in around the various old and new responsibilities was a going-away send-off from the MPN gang, complete with all the hysterical roastings that must accompany such an event. (You'll have to be content imagining the atmosphere set by this custom poster.)

Anyhow, it was a delightful capping of the career, and I will dearly miss my

co-workers, my Tuesday ritual of proofing the movie review page for the Sunday Freestyle section, my near-daily morning coffee breaks to the cappuccino machine with one of my partners in crime (Ha! Truer than you might imagine), my Post-side "peeps," some of whom often stayed late burning the midnight oil too, and the many, many fascinating local folks I got to meet in the course of reporting. How lovely that the near-and-dear will still be near! (The "dear" part doesn't change. ReD Zone rules.)

What was one of those New Year resolutions made a few months back? Embracing change, I believe? Guess this would be a checkmark in that box, a big one. Here's to embracing change, then: to old friends, new adventures, and fresh pages waiting to be filled in the next chapter.

Here we go!

Summer Soul-stice

Some things just do a body good ... like the refreshing visit my feet paid to the city's Lagoon Park last Saturday (sigh). I had missed my lagoons!

Warm sun, music-to-move-to on the iPod (that Christmas gift has really come in handy), and even a goose to scare off the path every time I swung by. What more could a girl ask? (Ok, well, energy to pull off a couple extra laps, but it was good just to start in again.)

It warms my soul to see all the grass that's grown in on the formerly sparse spots. The square landing docks are getting green rooftops, and they look sharp! They strike me as dapper gents tipping their caps, another thought that makes me smile.

Between the bridges, and the occasional willow trees, and the rabbits, squirrels and geese, it's this soul-soothing oasis to escape to without really leaving the comforts of home (after all, Starbucks can now be seen from one bridge, and my guess is many a couple out for a near-moonlit stroll later this year are going to be tempted to carry the conversation from the lagoons to the coffee shop.) And yes, I know my lagoon paths are perfect for more than just a jog. My good friend said they made for a delightful date, too. But, of course!

All of this reminds me of a song that's definitely of the spring-in-your-step sort:
"Think I'll go outside for a walk now, the summer sun's calling my name -- I hear ya now!
Just can't stay inside all day. Gotta get away, get away, get away, get away ...
into the Sunshine Day!"

See ya soon, lagoons!

A scam by any other name ...

I have a real problem with scam artists.

And it would appear that some of the slimiest scammers of our times are not email junkies hawking Viagra or Ephedra, or promising some illusive share of a Nigerian diplomat's supposed wealth, but the head honchos and higher-ups pulling in gadzillions in profits for oil and refining
companies.

What really burns me is the sheer audacity with which they concoct excuses for never-ending price hikes. Especially when, we hear more and more from insiders, every line is an apparent lie.

Anyone remember the unbelievable skyrocketing we had round these here parts a full 3-4 days after Hurricane Katrina hit? The overnight 75-cent jumps in pricing? Remember how the oil companies blamed it on being unable to access all the "hard-hit" gas lines in the Gulf supposedly needed to transport all that fuel to us? Suddenly "shortage" was the word of the day. Or so it would seem. What would you say if you learned that every September a number of refineries, as a matter of practice, shut down a number of transport lines for annual cleaning, and that, for years and years prior, those same "hard-hit" gas lines have been closed off and inaccessible anyway, with nary a shortage anywhere in the U.S.

A few weeks back, in February, my folks went on vacation to Texas to visit my aunt and uncle, who retired some time ago from Shell Oil, a subsidiary of a Dutch Royal (or is it Royal Dutch) oil holdings company. At the time, gas prices were beginning to spike again. He found it odd considering the actual cost of crude oil had just fallen by several bucks per barrel. Go figure.

Or what about the annual line that refineries are switching from "summer blends" to "winter blends" of gasoline or vice-versa, as if our cars couldn't possibly continue to operate on the same formula to which THEY'D ALREADY BEEN ACCUSTOMED!!! Adding insult to injury, we -- a culture growing increasingly accustomed to "green," environmentally-friendly practices in business and consumption -- are told the summer-blend gas burns "cleaner" Well, call me crazy, but what's wrong with burning gas cleaner through the ENTIRE YEAR??!!!??? If we're so enlightened that we know well enough to use compact fluorescent bulbs and recycle soda cans and plastic bottles as a matter of habit, why would we deliberately choose a return to winter-grade fuel that burns "dirtier" than a summer-grade blend? It's a simple question, people, and there's a simple answer: They don't let us choose. They do it for us so they can have one more reason to hike prices, yet again.

This, of course, sets aside arguments about drastic price fluctuations between towns not that far apart, or whether Congress should "cap" oil company profits or fine them for gouging, or simply tax them up the wazoo and turn around and refund all that money to the American people who have paid through the nose for gas.

Much as it pains me to admit it, I'm now "old enough" to remember a time, shortly before I started driving on a learner's permit, when gas ranged between 77 -89 cents a gallon. At the time, I remember thinking it was crazy my parents could clearly describe the days when gas cost 25 cents a gallon. A few years after I got my license, it started creeping up and 99 cents or 1.01-1.05 became the norm. Then one day it shot to 1.23 and I swear, the oil companies never looked back.

No wonder a fuel-cell prototype vehicle -- like the one I reported on today -- looks enticing. There's very little smoke and only a couple of mirrors.

Hokie Hauntings

What do you write when a place you've visited, an atmosphere you've embraced, and people you've met have been ripped apart at the very soul?

Today it's been one week since the tragedy at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg and I still hardly know how to process it all. The images on TV and the Internet are eerie because I was just there last fall. This is a campus I visited, a town whose streets I walked, whose Huckleberry Trail I jogged day after day, whose odd fiberglass Hokie Bird sculptures I surveyed, and those are students and teachers I may have passed without knowing they'd be victim to the worst mass shooting in U.S. history just a few months later. Was it only just October I was there?

One of my sisters has lived in Blackburg nearly two years, working with college students through a young, dynamic, outside-the-box church that meets on campus. Her apartment is about one mile off campus on a street that runs straight toward school buildings and athletic fields. Within hours of arrival, I was tailgating with undergrads and grad students, we'd bartered with a friendly alumnus for $10 football game tickets, and we traipsed across what felt like half the campus to the stadium. We clambered up on steel bleachers set up behind the end zone, the student section, where nobody, but nobody sits down. I still have pictures on my cell phone of the fireworks, the foam fingers, the semi-frozen fun.

The marching band filled out a few tiers below and led the whole section in the catcalls, chants and trademark rituals of a Hokie game, like shaking your car keys on a "key" play. I wonder now if marching captain Ryan "Stack" Clark, a victim from the first shooting, in the doorm that morning, was down there anywhere. Probably. I wonder too, if anyone I passed on the steps, on the sidewalks, near the gates, at the concesson stand -- were any of those nameless faces later named on the list of the dead or injured?

There's a photo online, one of thousands of images taken in the last week in Blacksburg. It's a movie marquee, with a message for the students that reads: "Our hearts are with you VT." There isn't a street sign to be seen in the picture, and very little else for clues to where it was found. But I know exactly where that marquee is. I can tell that photo was taken from the west side of its entrance, and I'm almost certain which of the nearby shops the photographer would have had to have been standing in front of when the image was captured. I know it's the Lyric Theatre, that not only is it the only independent arthouse cinema and playhouse in town, it's the only cinema in town, and I could describe the classic ambience inside. I know all this because I've been there, and because yes, Blacksburg really is that small (despite a campus of 26,000 students.)

That same chilling sense of recognition hits again when I see footage from inside the War Memorial Chapel, where some of the students my sister works with met to pray. I can literally hear the echo of footfalls, even if there's no audio of the corpsman's march. The wooden altar at the front is thick, heavy, golden-hued, the lectern off to the right is mounted on wheels, and despite its weight, rolls smoth and quiet, even with an accidental nudge. The steps up from the pews to the raised floor that runs around the side of the chapel are slick and wide. The chapel is not very big either. The drillfield, on the other hand? The one where students held a candlelight vigil for their fallen friends? Massive.

In the past week, numerous leaders and members of that campus church, my sister among them, have been written up in newspapers, photographed, interviewed by news anchors and filmed by network and cable affiliates. In the few minutes she has had time to call or email, we hear details that nearly defy comprehension. The scale of the sorrow is bigger than all of them. I know she's barely sleeping, of course -- too many students need her help, and she will willingly lend a hand, a listening ear, a shoulder, a hug. But I wonder, and I worry whether she's had any time to grieve herself.

Last Friday, the nation, it seemed, wore Hokie colors and adopted the Hokies as their own. Maybe it rubbed off from my sister, or the trip down there, or the combination of both, but embracing the Hokies in spirit wasn't hard for me. They've already haunted my thoughts.

A Whole Latte Love

While they've yet to grind the first beans at the Starbucks coffee houses coming soon to Canandaigua or Victor, I find myself falling under the spell of the "green" giant. And my reasons actually have little to do with all the mochas I've been drinking lately.

Don't get me wrong. Starbucks makes "Tasting Christmas" complete with their Peppermint Mochas and Cranberry Bliss Bar -- alas! limited editions -- and their in-house bookstore cafe concept is nothing short of genius. But in recent days, I've found more to love about the company than Pumpkin Spice Lattes and black-bottom cupcakes. This is a crush that goes beyond coffee.

And before anyone accuses me of being a few chocolate-covered espresso beans short of a whole bag, yes, I am aware that some folks out there despise Starbucks. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has heard the company is on some sort of capitalistic blitzkrieg to create millions of caffeine addicts who don't realize they're paying through the nose for coffee that supposedly tastes like dirt. But before those folks dismiss Starbucks out of hand, I would like to point out a few corporate strategies I find downright endearing:

1) Starbucks recycles more than its cups.
Looking around Canandaigua in particular, I am disgusted at the gut-and-go expansions of major corporate franchises. We have enough empty commercial footage to string together more than a few plazas and yet local planning board members giddy at commercial tax prospects haphazardly approve NEW construction with nary a second thought. (And people think I'm the one under a spell?)
Meanwhile, here comes Starbucks with perfectly sensible plans to move into vacant property, fix it up, put on a few coats of paint, change the sign and open in less than six months. In Victor, a historic cobblestone house is going to retain its charming character when Starbucks opens inside. In Canandaigua, the former Wendy's fast-food restaurant looks much the same from the outside -- just a few minor modifications to the drive-thru lane and replacement of two roof panels for the new signs to hang from. I'll be surprised if Starbucks bothers to paint the red bricks the supposedly "standard" beige color so many customers associate with the chain.
The Wal-Mart heirs ought to start taking lessons.

2) Starbucks looks out for the little guy.
Unlike some corporate giants already named, Starbucks employees, even those working part-time, can get health care through the company. I know this because one of my sisters used to be a Starbucks barista. She didn't opt for the coverage at the time, but her respect for the company was significantly higher than other prospective employers specifically because of that. Suffice to say, it rubbed off on me.


3) Starbucks isn't kidding about creating -- and supporting -- communities.
Sure, most of us are aware Starbucks is trying to create a "home away from home" customers will gravitate to, even if they aren't college co-eds. The nay-sayers will say it's all a ploy to sell more coffee, and maybe so. However, when I popped into the Brighton Starbucks recently late on a Wednesday night, I was pleasantly suprised by two things. First, a large sign hung in the window announcing the town's regular board meeting. Goodness knows, I've written enough stories about public bodies failing to publicize their operational meetings. So, for a retailer to let their prime window-dressing space serve the public interest, well, that's a concept I can get behind. Not to mention, odds are good more community members will actually read a sign in their local coffee shop than say, a flashing billboard set back from the road.
Second, I spied a group of knitters ensconced in a good-sized back room. The baristas said they met there often. I didn't ask, but I'd be willing to bet that "back" room is considered the "community" room.
Works for me.

4) Starbucks seems serious about charitable work.
I just learned Starbucks has a tradition of raising money for a local charity or volunteer at all ribbon-cuttings, by inviting $5 donations to that organization or individual during an open house at which the registers are closed, but the coffee and pastries are still being served. In Brighton, that same Starbucks moved a few doors down in the plaza last week, and for its re-opening, a plucky teenager's literacy outreach trip to Peru was the charity of choice.
The manager told me literacy was a company-wide focus and it carries over to the company's work in the Third World countries from which they import their coffee beans. But if the local managers can't find literacy or environmental efforts to promote at the ribbon-cuttings, they'll look for another worthy cause, he said.
After that assignment, I'm eager to see who the lucky ducks are for the Victor and Canandaigua ribbon-cuttings.
Another little-known fact I discovered in a hunt for a particular mug Starbucks had discounted? After their merchandise goes through its sale cycle, and shelves must be cleared to make way for new lines, the "old" mugs, for example, are returned to the warehouse, then donated to non-profit organizations, like shelters.

After all that, wouldn't you be smitten too?

Someday soon, I hope to be writing one of these posts from an alcove in the corner of my new neighborhood Starbucks. You shouldn't have any trouble spotting me.

I'll be the one with the sip and the sigh.