Category Archives: writing

New position and role: making stories happen

Charles Kuralt on his typewriter

Back around elementary school, as I watched Charles Kuralt wrap up one of his magnificent “On the Road” segments, I decided that I wanted to tell stories for a living. And I now have a new role, new title and new responsibilities at work that makes this more of a reality.

I’m taking on a new title as director of news and media services, although if such a thing was possible, I’d like to think of it as the director of storytelling. I now head a four-person professional team that includes writer Jeff Rea, videographer Jim Kearns and photographer Jim Russell, plus a squad of great student storytellers as always, with our main goal of telling the stories of SUNY Oswego, and why the college is a special community.

Maybe that comes in the form of a news story (once known as a press release), maybe it’s a video (although topping the Oz Chicken Patty’s virality will be a challenge), a photo that transmits a thousand words, a narrative Facebook post, a tweet, a ‘gram, a Snap or a blog post. It’s rather exciting to think of stories taking so many potential forms, and working with a talented team that can help bring these tales of awesome people doing amazing things to life.

The main challenge will be trying to figure out how to make our resources meet the possibilities, as every member of the Oswego family is a hero with an interesting story (or two or nine) that we could tell, but whether it’s a Campus Update Spotlight, a video about student research or a Friday #oswegram, our job is to work together to bring this content to the world.

And while it’s not traveling around America in an RV telling the extraordinary tales of ordinary people, it’s still pretty cool.

Advertisements

1 Comment

Filed under writing

Ad concept: Experience the world, but not through a lens.

Tree with sunlight coming through

Just had an idea for an ad. Could be for something like Jeep, a destination like the Adirondacks, maybe outdoor apparel.

It starts with a family packing the car (a Jeep?) for a wilderness vacation. The dad says, “Let’s do a pre-vacation selfie!” The mom and two kids turn around, click and they’re off.

At every stop, the dad wants to do the same thing. The mom and the kids are less and less interested in the selfie and more interested in seeing what’s around them in every scene.

Finally, the dad goes to take a selfie and sees nobody is into it. He turns around and he sees that his kids are standing with their arms out as a baby deer creeps tentatively toward them. The mom is looking on lovingly, appreciating how much her kids love nature.

The dad smiles, puts his phone in the pocket, and walks over to put his arm around his life.

I don’t have a tagline yet, but it would be something along the line of experiencing the world around you instead of through a lens.

I’d actually be less interested in selling a product as I would a valuable life lesson.

1 Comment

Filed under writing

13 days as a drunk

Just in time for my 23rd birthday, I was laid off from a job I loved but, in retrospect, wasn’t ready for. It served as impetus for 13 days of drinking, a kind of extended pity party.

I should note that my birthday and last day at my first professional job wasn’t technically the start of the drinking; my go-away day was a Monday and as a young man living in a city with friends who liked to celebrate, I had already partaken on the previous Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. When you work at a seven-weekend festival that’s wrapping up, that amount of celebration is not unusual. What followed was, at least for me.

Not only had I lost my job, but I had just moved to a new place where my two roommates were headed out of town for a festival in California, leaving me in kind of an empty nest. One of them never even moved back in and the other one still owes me money. But that’s water under the bridge; the point is that many things conspired to make me want to drown my sorrows.

When you have your 23rd birthday, there’s nothing unusual at all to have a few drinks on a Monday. And the next night was Flip Night at the old Shacki Patch, where a really good band always played and if you called heads or tails correctly when the bartender flipped a coin, you got your drink for free. I don’t remember Wednesday’s deal, but Thursday was Men Are Pigs Night at the Ferris Wheel, where you paid $2 at the door and could fill almost anything (beer ball, garbage can, you name it) for $2.25 (alas, it was Golden Anniversary) and, again, you’d hear a good band play.

Then the weekend came about and the cycle repeated.

Finally, on a Wednesday, a friend called and asked if I wanted to go out, and I just said no. I’ve come to realize that moment of knowing this could all keep going south was a big moment.

The days in between

“These are the days in between,” a song by that name by Canadian band Blue Rodeo would say many years later, “when everything seems hollow and mean. Don’t want to move, just want to forget. Smoke another cigarette and go back to bed.” Substitute “alcohol” for “cigarette” and you pretty much had the second half of that August.

In my new unemployed state, I would rise in the morning feeling number, draw a bath and listen to an earlier Blue Rodeo album, “Casino.” It’s still one of my favorites but the songs really hit my mood. Like album opener “Til I Am Myself Again.”

I want to know where my confidence went
One day it all disappeared
And I’m lying in a hotel room miles away
Voices next door in my ears
Daytime’s a drag
Night time’s worse
Hope that I can get home soon
But the half-finished bottles of inspiration
Lie like ghosts in my room

Admittedly, I wasn’t in a hotel room, but I felt a sense of transience that left me rootless. After what seems like a pretty successful college run, I’d moved four times in the previous months and now lived in a place virtually abandoned by the roommates I’d moved in. In days before the internet, you just had the phone, the front doors of your friends’ places and alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

Fire and ice

As I tried to come to grips from going from award-winning college journalist to finding what seemed like the perfect job to applying for unemployment benefits and feeling like a drain on the society I had wanted to better, finding solace in a bottle was not difficult. The house I lived in was a couple doors down from a Paura’s Liquors where Mad Dog 20/20 was available for about two bucks. The Pauras owned the first place I lived in town, and then where I moved as I started my drinking days. Months after I moved out into another apartment they owned over the liquor store, that house of blues burned down under suspicious circumstances, at least if you buy the story that a tenant who was evicted told the landlord, “I’m going to burn your fucking house down,” and shortly thereafter somebody who knew about the well-hidden basement started a fire in it. I don’t know if he successfully fled or if somehow the mystery wasn’t solved.

The liquor store, which I lived over before and after the house itself, just burned down a few months ago. In between, a bar across the street from it named Embers (ironic, in hindsight) also burned down, under suspicious circumstances. As did the New York Pizzeria a block down, which was a frequent source of sustenance. So much of my past burned, but not before I tried to burn my own future.

Embers — which featured a special of a pitcher of Bud Dry or Bud Ice (remember that?) for $2.10 — was one of my several bars in the neighborhood, on top of the apartments of friends who gladly shared their alcohol with me, as I would with them (the liquor store did good business).

Other bars in the area included:

The Sting, right across the street at West Third and Bridge, which had a nice patio. I had a portable phone that got reception there, the novelty of being in a bar and being able to send and receive calls predating the popularity of cellphones, which has since slid into a selfie, self-centered, phone-fixated culture. But I digress. The Sting is still there, although I couldn’t tell you when I last visited.

Walking down Bridge between Second and Third streets, you would first encounter the oddly named Gokey’s Cheese Shop. It was a generally quiet place where the college theater kids, some of whom were my brother’s friends, would hang out. It later became Cafe Zero, a quasi-biker bar with the best jukebox in town (blues, obscure rock, etc.). It is now the eastern half of my current favorite bar, The Raven, and the Cafe Zero sign hangs in the women’s bathroom.

Step out of Gokey’s, walk a few steps west and up a flight of stairs and you’d be in The Brick Bar. With its brick decor and nice view of downtown, it has remained somewhat encased in amber, almost the same as those days. I visited most frequently when a friend bartended and offered, ahem, drink specials not on the menu. I keep meaning to go to the Brick when they host a band called the Red Elvises, described as “a Russian-American band that performs funk rock, surf, rockabilly, reggae, folk rock, disco and traditional Russian styles of music.” Which is simply the most beautiful description of a band I’ve ever read.

Stumble back onto Bridge Street and hang a left on West Second and you’d reach Hard Times. Whether a literary reference or an apt description of a rust belt town during the recession, the place had a crooked pool table where we learned to play the slant and a bartender named Renee who always seemed to be working. We were often the only ones in it. No surprise it didn’t stay open much longer. It’s been renovated and is now a calzone eatery.

From there, you’d travel a couple blocks down to the short Water Street for the rest of the neighborhood bars. The aforementioned Ferris Wheel was apparently a former punk club with chain-link fence on windows. It was a total dive and I loved it. It’s been through a stretch of businesses, including Club Crystal, but then came back as just The Wheel.

Across the street sits one of the venerable bars in town, Old City Hall. So named because, well, it used to be the city hall. A majestic building that has been in various conditions over the year, it attracted a more earthy clientele and Dead-influenced and cover bands were the usual fare.

If you crossed Bridge to the upper part of Water Street, which is a parking lot, you could find Shenanigans open some night. It was also owned by the people who had laid me off, so while it was a nice place, I wasn’t in any hurry to visit. But it didn’t stay open long either.

The road out and back

Any and all of these places were stops, early and often, during my 13 days as a drunk. The thing about an extended bender is that you’re not necessarily drunk the whole time, but you are drinking for a lot of it.

Usually a beer, some cheap vodka, some 20/20 or whatever else was in the house was part of my post-long-bath lunch, perhaps with ramen noodles or mac and cheese or a sandwich. Sometimes I went out in early afternoon or, when more patient, waited for my friends to get out of work. They’d call me or I’d call them, but I almost always had somebody willing to lend an ear and bend an elbow for a beer. With no need to drive, we didn’t put the brakes on our habit til we were tired or closing time.

Then stumble home, the block or so back to my empty apartment a trip of building sadness and loneliness. I’d shut off the lights, put in a cassette tape and lay on my mattress and stare at the ceiling, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Or I’d climb in the hammock on the small back porch and swing back and forth, gazing at the stars and feeling especially small.

Then, finally, I had enough of having enough.

A friend called to see if I wanted to go out drinking, but before I could turn the corner into my third week of drinking, I politely said no, I didn’t feel like going out that night. After some small talk, I hung up and felt a bit better. Hangovers and drinking binges and blackouts can only seem like reasonable answers for so long.

It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time but, knowing some alcoholics who never figured out how to refuse a drink, I realize in retrospect it was a big step. If you or a loved one are battling the bottle, hope exists.

Summer melted into fall, the patio bar of The Sting was filled with leaves instead of people, and then winter settled in. Winters in my town are, to paraphrase Garrison Keillor, invented by God to show people who don’t drink what a hangover is like. Fortunately, I felt that actual feeling less and less.

I worked a couple of weeks at the beginning of the spring semester at the college bookstore, a time they called rush when they hired additional temporary help. As expected, that time came to an end but with an employer actually thanking me and saying they were sorry they couldn’t keep me on. Even as I went back on unemployment, that bit of uplift meant a lot.

Within a couple of months, I was interviewing for an actual dream job — doing publicity for Oswego’s Harborfest. I’d never actually done PR in my life, although my friends at the newspaper who were PR majors asked me to help me with their homework, so I read their books, helped a bit, and sniffed: “A PR person is a cross between a journalist and a whore.” But then I discovered I really wanted to be a whore, so to speak, to sell a festival that I enjoyed to the world.

While I’d written news stories, I had never penned a press release and had only news clippings in my portfolio. So I went to Penfield Library on campus and read every PR book I could find as well as “What Color is Your Parachute?” I came up with the idea of writing a news release on myself as my cover letter, and sent everything off. I figured it would either net an interview or a one-way ticket to a garbage can.

It got me an interview. It went OK. They gave the job to someone else.

That person quit after one day.

I was a number-two choice, but the festival director called me and essentially gave my life a second chance. I worked for Harborfest for seven years, learned a lot, made countless friends and built professional experience that still underpins what I do at work.

And, more importantly, has never made me want to drink for 13 days in a row again.

Leave a comment

Filed under writing

The Ringo Principle: A measuring stick for business and life

John, Paul, George and Ringo hit America

Been listening to a lot of Beatles lately (as happens) and this morning while enjoying “Octopus’ Garden,” yet another brilliant facet of the Fab Four hit me — and how it provides a lesson for business and life. Let’s call it the Ringo Principle.

The drummer born Richard Starkey was a full-on member of The Beatles, but it wouldn’t be controversial to say he was its fourth-best singer and composer. This is no slight on Ringo; the fourth-best hitter in the 1927 New York Yankees’ famed Murderers’ Row is in the Hall of Fame. Ringo is in any and all applicable halls of fame and regarded as a legend in the business, and rightfully so.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney are two of rock’s most iconic voices who penned much of the soundtrack for a generation. George Harrison may have been the Quiet Beatle, but “Here Comes the Sun,” “Something” and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” were hit songs judged by many critics to be among the group’s top masterpieces.

But despite the profusion of talent among the three-headed monsters of pop rock fronting the band, Ringo was no slouch. His affable self-effacing humor and the giants in front of him have obscured that he was a very talented and innovative drummer; listen to some of today’s top percussionists or just appreciate his amazing rhythm lines on “Come Together” or “Ticket to Ride” (just for starters) if you need education.

The Beatles could have just stuck to their recipe of writing many of the biggest hits of the 1960s, but they didn’t mind giving Ringo the spotlight, vocally and otherwise. He wrote and sang the beloved “Octopus’ Garden” as well as the dark circus-y romp “Don’t Pass Me By,” but The Beatles willingly let him sing at least a song on many an album to let his distinctive voice provide a rounder soundscape. His vocal contributions include the timeless anthem “A Little Help from My Friends,” and “Yellow Submarine,” the title track to their terrifically trippy animated movie. While composing the latter, McCartney explained, “I was thinking of it as a song for Ringo.” One of the greatest songwriters of the 20th century actively thought about crafting tunes to fit his drummer’s voice.

The real lesson here is one of inclusion and opportunity — ideals that improve business and our lives. At work, do you let members of your team stretch their creative and problem-solving muscles or do you put them in projects that give them just enough room to function? Do you provide opportunities to shine through presentations or as the public face of a project, or do you keep them shunted behind their computer? Do you actively give them praise, whether to their face, in front of others or even when they’re not around?

Or, if you work in higher education, do you recruit students to be stars or merely to be helpers? Do you let them write blogs? Do you give them social media takeovers that infuse their personality into your accounts? Do you allow them to be talent — not just script-readers but creative contributors — in your videos?

Many people learn they are good at one particular thing and get pigeonholed. They become the drummer, the dependable hand buried at the back of the stage. It’s our jobs as leaders and as humans to make sure they all get some spotlight, some shine, some stardom. Teams only excel when we are more than willing to show that success is only possible with a little help from our friends.

Leave a comment

Filed under writing

How new urbanism infuses Oswego’s $10 million downtown funding

When I saw the details of the $10 million in grant funding to the city of Oswego’s Downtown Revitalization Initiative, I immediately thought that somewhere Jane Jacobs must be smiling.

In the middle of the 20th century, as America begun sprawling into suburbs and throwing up highway systems, and as planners pondered the disastrous and destructive concept deceptively called “urban renewal,” Jacobs penned a counterpoint that inspired a new look at how to revive cities with the influential The Death and Life of Great American Cities.

Contrary to the desire to (over)stretch city and suburban geography at the time, Jacobs instead pointed to urban density — putting people as well as living, eating and shopping spaces closer together as fomenting vibrancy, citing the likes of Boston’s North End and NYC’s Greenwich Village as examples. She saw “the need in cities for a most intricate and close-grained diversity of uses that give each other constant mutual support, both economically and socially.” Lively downtowns are self-supporting, she adds: “A well-used city street is apt to be a safe street,” giving “people — both residents and strangers — concrete reasons for using the sidewalks on where these enterprises face.”

Her theories were a large inspiration for what is known as “new urbanism,” which rejected the idea of paving paradise to put in a parking lot.

According to the New Urbanist website, its movement:

promotes the creation and restoration of diverse, walkable, compact, vibrant, mixed-use communities composed of the same components as conventional development, but assembled in a more integrated fashion, in the form of complete communities. These contain housing, work places, shops, entertainment, schools, parks, and civic facilities essential to the daily lives of the residents, all within easy walking distance of each other.

While one can kvetch over details of the DRI funding (it’s 2017, that will happen, particularly in the comments sections of media websites), the announced details aim toward making downtown Oswego much more livable, workable, walkable and shoppable.

Building blocks

1924204_38182887343_3361_nMy brother lived in the first converted downtown loft spaces in Oswego, in the Browne-Davis building, and they far exceeded expectations because it easily found a crop of professionals who desired urban living with great convenience. But it becomes a chicken-and-egg proposition: People who live downtown will shop and eat there, but how do you build shopping and eating centers if you don’t know what traffic you’ll get? The DRI looks at these as intertwined.

Ben Kail of The Palladium-Times has started the process of unspooling the funding (subscription required but recommended) and also posted the original news release. While at least one local media outlet looked straight at the shiny (new indoor waterpark!), focusing on novelty is not seeing the forest for the trees.

Among the commendable features that dovetail with new urbanism:

  • Mixed-use developments on West First Street at Bridge Street, Harbor View Square (First and Lake streets), and a redeveloped Midtown Plaza (providing more downtown residences mixed with places to eat and shop)
  • A multi-building development to fill a vacant lot and upgrade structures on West First Street with an eye toward 24/7 vibrancy (also encouraging more foot traffic by better connecting anchor attractions)
  • Renovating the Cahill building to include housing and dining (historic preservation as economic development)
  • River Walk improvements (cultivating natural beauty as another downtown draw)
  • Funds to support additional renovation of the Children’s Museum of Oswego (already an anchor for family activities that positively impacts surrounding businesses)
  • Create a “pocket park” on Market Street (a compact recreational space as an attraction uniting parts of a business district)

While many more details are forthcoming, it’s an exciting box of building blocks.

Back around 2000, when I was features editor at The Palladium-Times, I wrote a series of articles on historic preservation and how urbanism tied into a community’s sense of history and togetherness. But even as I covered very vibrant places, the missing piece of the puzzle was a resolve and a philosophy to dedicate to a city core instead of sprawling strip-mall exurbs. Today’s announcement shows, at long last, a dedication — financial and philosophical — to make new urbanism work in Oswego.

Will the last piece — people to live and revive all the corners of downtown — fall into place? That’s the final question here, but a confirmed commitment to downtown, to say nothing of millions of dollars, gives us hope.

Leave a comment

Filed under writing

The Declaration of Independence and Constitution were our original content management systems.

Looking across social media, I see a lot of people a bit adrift on what to do on Independence Day, as they see erosions in the country they love, lawmakers not living up to the promises of their offices, government decrees with which they disagree. But remember that we are the people the writers of Declaration of Independence and the Constitution envisioned — even if they probably couldn’t fathom Twitter or society’s vain obsession with selfies — you could even say these documents are our original content management systems.

If you’re never worked in a content management system, let me define it simply: A CMS is a type of software that allows editors to make changes to webpages. A CMS exists so that almost anybody can update a page without needing to be a computing genius. People get hung up about features in a CMS sometimes, but what’s most important is the content, or the words and pictures and videos and stories that benefit visitors to the website.

In 1776, the Declaration of Independence was the original governance document — they found their current system (government, CMS) wasn’t working, and needed something new (thankfully, they didn’t put it out for bid). The Constitution, in 1787, really established the content management system; it showed how editors (representatives) could write and revise content (pass laws).

It also created a governance structure to go with this CMS — creating the system of representation guiding how the document could be revised in larger (amendments, or software updates) and smaller (regular legislation) ways. It created different permissions levels (branches of government with task lists and authority but also checks and balances). (It did err in one part of not trusting its users, which was the institution of an Electoral College, but that’s a whole different discussion.)

Like a content management system, these initial documents were not as focused upon the content that would need to be created (laws, statutes, amendments) as they were the mechanisms that make these changes happen. Or, as I’ve said many times before, a content management system creates neither content, nor management, nor a system; that’s up to the humans coordinating and maintaining the system.

On this July 4, I can look around and not like a lot of what I see, but this I know: The country’s content management isn’t broke. This is all user error. And it’s on we, the people, to fix it.

So if you don’t like what’s happening, sitting on Twitter and clapping back and people who aren’t listening isn’t the solution. Arguing with people who’ll never agree with you is a waste of time. The representatives (the editors) of this great content management system are not using it for the benefit of all users. If you don’t like the decisions they’re making, let them know. If you don’t think they’re going to carry out the promises of the nation, support people who can.

The Declaration of Independence and Constitution are living, breathing documents, but only if we’re willing to breathe life into it. The pair of documents have been working together for 230 years (or 220+ years longer than the average college CMS) for a reason. That reason is us.

The documents and our founding fathers and our nation might not be perfect. But we are the ones empowered to form a more perfect union. To show that all (hu)mans are created equal. And to uphold the enduring promise of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, by making it user-friendly for all.

Leave a comment

Filed under writing

Several years

Cemetery

I stopped to visit you today
Several years too late
Several years after you killed yourself
Several years I’ve been trying to forget
These several years you’ve been here
In this country cemetery

For several years we were friends
We were together almost every weekend
Talking, laughing, having adventures, drinking
One of those was a problem
But I didn’t realize
It was covering for something else

Several years ago, you made a decision
You thought the world was better without you
That wasn’t true
It’s never true

We had a falling out
Not a bang but a whimper
I guess it was more like a fading out
Your behavior grew strange
But I made myself a stranger
When I should have stayed your friend

We stopped hanging out
Things happened with you
We didn’t talk any more
Not that we didn’t want to
We just didn’t
But I figured we would

The last time you called me you didn’t seem well
But you didn’t seem sick
Or desperate
Or despairing
Or despondent
Or depressed

But you were just trying to do your best
I was listening
But didn’t hear
I don’t remember the conversation
Other than that it was a bit awkward
And that I didn’t tell you I missed you
And that I didn’t thank you for being my friend
And that I didn’t realize
The things I’d realize
Until too late
Several years later

I heard about the trouble
I didn’t realize your struggle
Then I heard that you were gone
And I realized I wasn’t there for you
That a lot of your friends weren’t there for you
Would it change things if you knew
That we still cared?

For several years
I’ve driven past this cemetery
Not realizing this is where you are
Not trying to realize
Trying to forget instead
But the other day I found out
So I drove out and stopped the car
And with little thought
Your stone was in the first section I walked
The dirt in front of it seemed fresh
As fresh as memories
From several years ago

The road where we split up is paved with the things I didn’t say
We had wonderful times, but terrible timing
But it’s not too late to say I’m sorry to a friend
I’m sorry to a friend …
Like a stone in a stream
Life smoothes all our edges
‘Til we barely make a ripple any more
But those times in my life will live with me forever [1]

Today I had a nice talk with you
Several years too late
I thanked you for your friendship
I told you I was sorry
Several years too late
And I don’t know if you can hear me
But know that I understand
As much as we can
That you were a tortured soul
And while we weren’t there
Several years ago
You will be with us
Always

I took the back way home
And a lady in an SUV flashed her lights
Sure enough, at the bottom of the hill
A police car was waiting and watching
And I realize how many times
Strangers help each other
Yet friends who are like brothers
Take each other for granted
And neglect the seeds they’ve planted
For several years

Today is the time to make amends
Don’t carry tomorrow your silence with friends
Lest it not reach their ears
For several years

[1] Lyrics from “Sorry to a Friend,” Edwin McCain, © 1995 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Leave a comment

Filed under writing