Character Notes, A&E – Fr. Francis Vindicare

Last Saturday, I heard an NPR interview with an Irish author, who quoted E.L. Doctorow on writing a novel:

“It’s like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

At the start, I loosely outlined Angels & Enemies. I also started writing before I finished the outline. The structure of A&E is a bit unique because, in my mind, I viewed this as a mini-series featuring Twilight-Zone-style vignettes, each featuring its own plot and a twist at the end. I ran into a snag with Episode 1 when I presented the plane crash scene to the Denver Writers’ Group. I was new to the group, and they still refer to that critique as “Kerry’s bloodletting.” One of the guys there, Kevin Cullis, had been an Air Force pilot for 13 years, and pointed out some flaws in my narrative. I thought I had researched it well, interviewing a few pilots, but Kevin helped me out tremendously with his point of view. Instead of belaboring the crash rewrite, I moved on to Episode 2 – The Sally Ramirez Story.

We first see Fr. Francis when the Jesuit says a funeral Mass. An incident occurs, and he is as confused by it as the other witnesses. He consoles Sally Ramirez after, having no clue how much Sally would change his life. As his creator, I had no idea, either.

Later, I realized it would be necessary to perform an exorcism. In college at St. Bonaventure University, I met a Franciscan Friar who was also a native of Rochester, N.Y., Alphonsus Trabold, O.F.M., who was a Vatican-sanctioned exorcist. Regrettably, I never took his “Spooks & Specters” class, although I heard many stories about Trabold from those who did. The internet is a wonderful thing, and I was able to locate some of his exorcism notes and the prayers he used, a handful of articles about him and even a descriptive of his personal effects that were archived after his death. I wanted to base my exorcist on Fr. Trabold.

My initial vision of the book contained very little religion. I did not want to introduce a busload of priests to muck up a rollicking good time with a dozen or more evil demons. I wanted only one. Well, perhaps two. With a few bishops and archbishops in the bleacher seats. Since I had already introduced Fr. Francis, I decided that he would be my Trabold.

This minor character took on a different light. His confusion over the event at the funeral evolved into his way of diminishing panic among the congregation, for in his past, he had been face to face with evil many times. More importantly, he had been defeated by evil. When demons, the enemy of his faith, come to roost in his back yard, he is compelled to action by what he knows. He is reluctant, but not fearful. One of the key messages of the novel is that fear is the greatest tool of the devil.

In some ways, I made light of Francis’ weaknesses. He is a sucker for his greatest temptation: the cookies in the sacristy kitchen. Like St. Joseph and many others, Fr. Francis is motivated by a dream. He faces his reservations in a public way, and is spied by a little girl who asks why he is crying. Without spoiling the story, his reaction is one that turns what would ordinarily be perceived as a weakness into a powerful display of his greatest strength. It is probably my favorite scene to read, as it is touching, packed with emotion, tempered with natural beauty and with humor. The little girl confirms the priests convictions in a surprising way, and look out, Lucifer! There’s a new sheriff in town.

Fr. Francis will likely be remembered in Angels & Enemies for doing something that only two other mortals have achieved. Yes, that is dramatic, because Fr. Francis is an overachiever. I hope that what lives on in the mind of the reader is Fr. Francis’ eloquent definition of the soul, of its corruptibility, and why it is sought by the powers that rule heaven and hell.

That is the cornerstone of this novel about spiritual warfare as it exists in the present-day world, just as it has existed throughout recorded time. I think Fr. Francis, the minor throwaway-character-turned-protagonist, conveys that the fight is not merely one that is fought between the supernatural forces of angels and demons, but one that is fought within each of us, daily.

This week, I have sent pitch letters to three more agents in the hopes of getting Angels & Enemies published. I have no fear that it will be ignored for long. In fact, I think I’ll have a cookie.

The Perfect Mile-High Slice

It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy these days. I’ve learned to take stock each day of what I have and to place less stock in what I want but do not have.

One thing I did not have was a consistently good pizza place in Denver. “Back East,” plenty of places fit the bill. Here in the Rockies, many pizza places use frozen crust. Um… sorry, no! Without naming names (ahem! Blackjacks, Pahaha-pa Murphy’s) the pies were pretty awful. I enjoyed a slice from Denver Pizza Company once, and when I ordered a whole pie, there was nothing to it. Their wafer-thin crust was just sad, no matter how tasty the toppings. A few dine-in places have been passable.

The best things in life sometimes happen by accident. Today, I stopped for cheap gas ($2.85/gal, read it and weep, friends!), but the pumps were closed due to renovations. I turned into the parking lot across the street, and saw a pizza restaurant called Pantaleone’s NY Pizza and Pasta. I have been known to buy things based solely on how fun their name is to say.

I made a mental note to stop back sometime. Then, before leaving the lot, I parked again. I had not had my adventure for the day yet, and although I wasn’t hungry, I wanted to try a slice. With a name like Pantaleone’s, it had to be authentically Italian.

The owner was hustling food out to a table and acknowledged me. Turns out I was in luck. He had one slice of sausage pizza left. While I watched him put the monster-sized slice in the over, I noticed that among his family portraits were photos of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and other Yankees, and that his beer tap had a Yankees logo instead of a beer company. “I’m not a baseball fan,” he stated. “I’m a Yankee fan.” I’ve been trying to tell Yankee fans something like that for years.

The slice comes out of the oven, and as he is putting it in the bag, the guy tells me, almost as an afterthought, “I make my own sausage, you know. The stuff you buy, it can’t compare.” Ah, pride in workmanship. One of the keys in Kerry’s successful restaurant marketing course.

I was going to drive across town and indulge, but I was curious, so I took a bite before I pulled out of my parking space. The thin crust had a crunch to it on the bottom, and as the flavors combined in my mouth, the crust seemed to melt into the fresh tomato sauce, mildly herbed, and a fresh mozzarella that was not tough and chewy, but delicate. The sausage, as the pizza man predicted, was incomparable. I savored each bite, searching for flaws, finding none. It may very well have been the best slice of pizza I ever tasted. At just over $3 a slice, I found the serving to be the perfect size to satiate a lunch appetite.

A wondrous slice of pizza off the beaten path, discovered entirely by accident. Pantaleone’s on Holly Street, tucked back in a small plaza across from the Bradley’s gas station near Evans Ave. is the answer to my quest for delicious pizza in Denver. It’s not for the faint of heart – the large 18” pie is $26, and the 12” pizza – the equivalent of a Papa Johns or Pizza Hut “large” — is about $14.   Still, I may not have anything nasty to say about Yankee fans until after Spring Training is over.

Radio Interview: Angels & Enemies, Books and Such

Here is the transcript of an interview with author Kerry Gleason by Michael Buck, host of Books and Such on WBGR in Bowling Green, Ohio.

Q: So, Kerry, tell us a little about your novel, Angels & Enemies.

A: Well, it’s not published yet, so I’m wading in the publishing industry waters for the first time. Angels & Enemies is a chilling suspense thriller about spiritual warfare, the invisible war that takes place beneath the surface of every life, every day of our lives. The novel is 133,122 words and follows the lives of four very different people who are caught in the crossfire between angels and fallen angels, and a Catholic priest who attempts to avenge their diabolical visitations.

Q: Wow! Some light reading before bedtime! Now, you said earlier, off the air, that Angels and Enemies has a different format from most books. How so?

A: Well, it is different. I’ve written it in “episodes,” and the book begins with four novellas about characters undergoing strange events that are not what they seem to be. There’s Prescott Blakely, a high-level government consultant who is selling nuclear secrets to North Korea. There’s Sally Ramirez, a single mom who is fighting to keep her two young children from being targets of an international human trafficking ring. There’s Ron Baker, an underemployed contractor whose own house is in disrepair, who is seeking to be cured of cancer with these very special little green pills that glow. Finally, there is Boneyard Brown, a skinny relief pitcher from Iowa who falls in love with an all-you-can-eat place called Bubba’s Brick Oven. After the four novellas, the remaining episodes, featuring a fascinating priest, Father Francis Vindicare, weave these characters together as it sparks some acrimony between angels… and enemies. See how I worked the title in there. (laughs)

Q: Well played. Is there another author who influenced the style of Angels… & Enemies?

A: You got it, Mike! Angels & Enemies is a lot like the Twilight Zone meets the Bible. It is my homage to Rod Serling, a very brilliant writer who had ties to Upstate New York, where I am from. I tried to play off my knowledge of Hitchcockian suspense as well.

Q: How long did it take to write the novel?

A: A little over two years.

Q: Why so long?

A: Well, I moved cross-country to Colorado, where I’m trying to live an adventure a day. There was an adjustment period there, plus, I tend to do a lot of research. Before I can write, I have to feel like, in my mind, I can walk down the same streets as my characters. Which also means setting up little back stories for each of the characters, many of which are not in the book.

Q: If Angels & Enemies were a film, what would it be rated?

A: R.

Q: Why? Give us an idea of what people can expect to see in the pages of the book.

A: Let me try to summarize. You’ve got some of the seven deadly sins – not saying which ones – mountain lions, wolves, bears (perhaps), strippers, demon sex, cannibalism, terrorism, there’s a spelunking scene, medieval torture, and lets see – channeling, eels, serpents. Oh, and did I forget to mention three or four exorcisms. There is some necessary harsh language because foul language is a huge part of the demonic lexicon.

Q: Spelunking?

A: The exploration of caves and caverns.

Q: Ever done that yourself?

A: Never. Only in my mind when I wrote this novel.

Q: Channeling?

A: Actually, that was based on a real-life incident I experienced in Canada. It seemed very absurd as it unfolded, but had some rather serious after-effects for me.

Q: For those who may be confused, what is channeling?

A: Oh, I’m sorry. Channeling is a ritual, popular in a lot of Eastern cultures, where spirits of the dead are conjured, and a mystic is able to communicate the thoughts of the dead to the living. It is very ritualistic, and is sometimes used as a mind-control tactic. There is a reference in the channeling episode where the mystic pounds on Prescott Blakely’s chest, which can change a person’s heart rhythm. It’s called a Q on T phenomenon and during this induced arrhythmia, when the heart has stopped momentarily, evil spirits can enter a person’s being.

Q: Did you experience evil spirits?

A: I experienced something. I ran from the house where this occurred, and in the course of the three-hour drive home, experienced a rage that I’ve never had before. And never since. I had to stop and get off the road. In the rest stop mirror, I could see it changed my physical appearance. My face was all red and my eyes took on a manic behavior. As I was walking to a restroom, a stranger walking to his car asked me, “What is wrong with you? Can I help you, mister?” I tried to recapture that with Prescott. The poor guy.

Q: So, let me ask, maybe a little personal, but do you feel you’ve had a window with a view, so to speak, into spiritual warfare in the real world?

A: Absolutely. I feel as though my life is guided by an angelic presence. It has taken a lot of years to develop, but I’ve had a lot of brushes with evil, I have seen a lot of things. I think I’ve developed a certain sense where I can see angels – and their fallen colleagues – at work. Often it is tough to tell the difference. Fallen angels are tricksters and masters of deceit. Often what appears to our human eyes is one thing, while what is actually happening in the underlying spiritual world is something entirely different. Deceit. I tried to bring that out, illustrate that, in Angels & Enemies.

Q: We’re talking with first-time author about his forthcoming, yet-to-be-published novel, Angels & Enemies. Kerry, was it hard to write?

A. Very hard. I am not an evil person, don’t consider myself to be, but I had to write explicitly wicked details and events. When I was writing the evil parts, I felt like I had to be secluded, away from people, and I had to give myself time to get back into society. Sometimes a full day or so. After one scene I wrote, I was shaking for more than an hour after I shut off my laptop. I’m thinking if it had that effect on me, it will scare the hell out of the readers. Or maybe, scare the hell into them.

Q: Besides selling lots of books, what do you see as – what do you envision as the long-term effect of this novel?

A: Above all, it’s fiction and entertainment. But I hope it makes people think about events in the world – of the world – in a, with enlightenment. There are many dark forces in the world. Forces we don’t understand. The good news is that angels are warriors, and according to the Scriptures, there are twice as many of them as there are fallen angels. But maybe there need to be that many because society gives so much power to the evil. My greatest fear is that people are going to judge me by the evil I’ve written. I’m not a bad guy. I’m really not!

Q: Are you in need of an exorcism? There’s this guy, Fr. Francis, and he may be able to help you. How did you come up with the Fr. Francis character?

A: Ah, yes, Fr. Francis Dominic Vindicare. Symbolically, his name means “peaceful avenger for God.” He is flawed. He is human. But he sees the world on a different scale than most others. When I was a student at St. Bonaventure University, there was a Franciscan Friar, Fr. Alphonsus Trabold, who was an exorcist, certified to eradicate demons by the Vatican. He taught a class that was nicknamed “Spooks and Specters,” and he was a character. He’d keep the front row empty, nobody could sit in the front row because that was reserved for poltergeist. And he would welcome them into the room as they arrived. I never took the class, although now, I wish I had. But I would pass Fr. Alphonsus on campus, and he would always smile and say hello. So I based my Jesuit priest, Fr. Francis, on Fr. Alphonsus Trabold, and actually found articles and some excerpts from his own notes with prayers he used in his exorcism rites. Originally, Fr. Francis was a fringe character with a very minor role. I did not intend for Angels & Enemies to have such a strong religious flair. But as I got into the story, I had to rewrite it, because it needed a bridge between the supernatural and the human world in which we live. Fr. Francis is the bridge between those worlds. We learn a lot through his eyes.

Q: What is the next step for you?

A: I’ll put Angels & Enemies out there to find an agent. After I feel I have exhausted the possibilities, if I haven’t found an agent, I’ll look at self-publishing options. My underlying belief is that this is a story that needs to be told.

Q: Is there a sequel to Angels & Enemies in your future, or does the world come to a crashing halt?

A: The world doesn’t end. There is room for a sequel. But next, I feel I have to write some comedy. Come back from the dark side.

Q: How will we know when the book is available?

A: Subscribe to my blog. It’s javelinatime.wordpress.com.

Q: Javelina Time?

A: Yeah. I’m fascinated by them. They are one of those creatures that let you know God has a sense of humor. And, it’s in the last line of the theme song to the Flintstones, right? (singing) We’ll Javelina Time!

Q: Maybe the Homer Simpson version.

This blog is intended for entertainment purposes. It’s transcript is a feature of Javalinatime,Wordpress.com with permission of Michael Buck, “Books & Such” and WBGR which may be fictional in nature.

My Connection to The Unabomber

I remember Tom Mosser most on snow-covered Saturdays as Christmas approaches.  This story starts on a January day, long ago.

My cardboard box was packed with a few photographs, knick-knacks and awards as I waited for the elevator to take me down to the lobby of the Burson-Marsteller office building in New York City.  I said goodbye to Sally, the receptionist, and wondered if I was making the biggest mistake of my life leaving this place.  The doors opened, and there was Tom Mosser, a nattily dressed man 16 years older than I.  Although he was going to exit the elevator at the third floor, he stayed on so we could talk.  I was honored.

We shared a similar pedigree.  Each of us were journalism grad under the tutelage of Prof. Russell J. Jandoli at St. Bonaventure University.  We had moved into the world of Public Relations, landing for a time with the colossal firm that was then the most successful in the world, in large part due to Tom’s commitment to excellence before I had arrived.  He was a U.S. Navy vet and had put in nearly 15 years with B-M before my arrival. 

 

 I worked directly with Tom only once, although he was always aware of the work I produced for clients. Occasionally, I would receive a congratulatory memo from Tom for a job well done.  The Coke account was his baby.  He called me into the fold for a top-secret media relations project for Coca-Cola USA, when they introduced New Coke, and then again a few weeks later when public furor dictated they re-introduce the original Coke recipe.  He was a Senior VP, and I was but a Senior Account Executive, yet I felt he respected my views and opinions without hesitation.

He read my mind that day as we rode the elevator to the lobby.  He praised me for the work I had done, and encouraged me to go forward and do great things in my next job.  More importantly, he gave me a safety net, saying, “You know, you can always come back.”  It was such a comfort to hear that I was not departing on a one-way path to oblivion.  We shook hands in the lobby, and as I left, he was the face of this company.  In a few words, he erased my fears of the future and the unknown.

Fast-forward to 1994.  I had established an advertising and PR firm in Rochester, and subsidized the start-up with a part-time job in the newspaper industry.  Okay, I was delivering papers.  Each morning, six days a week, I arrived at the loading dock of the Democrat and Chronicle at 3:30 a.m. to deliver the local news and USA Today to newsstands and honor boxes downtown.  That was where I heard the news about Tom Mosser.

That Saturday, Dec. 10, Tom awoke in his home in West Caldwell, N.J.  It was to be a special day, when he and his wife, Susan, would take their two daughters, ages 13 years and 15 months, to shop for their family Christmas tree.   That night, he and Susan would celebrate his recent promotion to GM and executive vice president of Young and Rubicam, Burson-Marsteller’s parent company.  Tom stood in his kitchen wearing his bathrobe.  He had returned from a business trip the night before, and was sorting through mail that arrived in his absence.  A parcel spelling Burson-Marsteller inaccurately caught his attention.  He opened the package anyway.

The house shook violently.  A white cloud filled the kitchen, and when the dust settled, his wife faced a grisly scene.  Amid fallen plaster and a two-foot crater in the granite counter, she saw Tom’s motionless body on the floor.  There was little question of his fate.  A gaping hole in his stomach resulted from the blast.  His fingers were barely connected to his hands, and his charred, distorted head was nearly severed from his body.

The evidence that remained from the explosion indicated a consistency with that of the crusader against progress dubbed the Unabomber.  The terrorist’s deadliest bomb to that date ended Tom Mosser’s life at the age of 50.  He became another victim of Ted Kaczynski’s rage against society.   After Kaczynski’s capture, essays recovered in his Montana hovel proved that the targeting of Mosser was a case of mistaken identity.  Kaczynski read a news account of the Exxon Valdez accident, which erroneously identified Mosser as the PR executive leading the efforts to clear Exxon’s name.  He manufactured the explosive device in a handmade wooden box filled with razor blades, nails and metal scraps using an untraceable detonation device constructed of rubberbands, batteries and thin wire and match heads.  It bore the initials “FC,” which became the insignia of the deadly killer.  Later, it was learned those initials stood for “Freedom Club.”  

In an instant, this worthless, piece-of-crap lunatic destroyed a beautiful man and shattered the lives of his family. Kaczynski now lives in a cell 10 feet by 12 feet, which is about 7 feet by 5 feet too large, and at least six feet closer to the earth’s surface than he deserves. He’s in the Colorado Supermax prison at Florence.  Other prisoners there include:

    * Matthew F. Hale (white supremacist leader; convicted of soliciting the murder of a federal judge)
    * Robert Hanssen (FBI agent; convicted of spying for the Soviet Union and Russia)
    * Charles Harrelson (father of actor Woody Harrelson; murdered a federal judge)
    * Larry Hoover (leader of the Gangster Disciples Nation based in Chicago)
    * Theodore Kaczynski (The “Unabomber”)
    * David Lane (white supremacist terrorist leader; involvement in the murder of talk radio host Alan Berg)
    * Zacarias Moussaoui (conspirator in the September 11, 2001 attacks)
    * Terry Nichols (Oklahoma City Bombing conspirator)
    * Omar Abdel-Rahman (Islamist terrorist, nicknamed “The Blind Sheik”; involved in World Trade Center bombing planning in 1993)
    * Richard Reid (Islamic terrorist, “Shoe Bomber” )
    * Eric Robert Rudolph (Olympic Park bomber)
    * Ramzi Yousef (Islamist terrorist, 1993 World Trade Center bombing)
    * Dwight York (leader of the Nuwaubianists; convicted for child molestation)
    * Wadih el-Hage (conspirator in the 1998 United States embassy bombings)
    * Anthony “Gaspipe” Casso (mobster and former underboss of the Lucchese crime family)
 

I think of Tom Mosser often, and try my best to emulate his honesty, wisdom and spirit of decency.  At times, I wish I could seek his wise counsel and friendship.  Today, I can merely pay tribute to his memory.

Beer Review: MillerCoors Batch 19

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Batch 19 is billed as a pre-Prohibition era lager. The story, intriguing as it is, does not pass my B.S. Test. Still, I was eager to try the new MillerCoors hops-hopped brew.

The backstory:   Supposedly, a basement archive in an old brewing facility contained a recently found recipe dating back to before 1919, when Prohibition Era forced the closure of most breweries. This recipe was “lost” (oopsy-daisy!) until just a few years ago, and brewmasters refined the recipe, calling the finished product “Batch 19.”

The Marketing:   Oh, I wish I could help market this product. Whether or not the story is bullshit, it provides many creative platforms to market the brew. In big cities back east, MillerCoors is staging pre-Prohibition parties with Roaring ’20s style flair. The telling of this tale is attention getting. The slogan is “Defiantly Bold Beer.”

The Batch 19 review:   Batch 19 is designed to have a stronger hops flavor, and uses strisselspalt and hersbrucker hops. The result is a hybrid lager with elements of an IPA. It contains 5.5% alcohol and bears a modestly premium price, maybe a dollar or so more than your ordinary Coors products.
I like it. It tastes like beer, unlike most commercially viable American lagers, especially those from Millers or Coors. Batch 19 is what I would call a commercial microbrew. While the packaging suggests it bears undertones of black currants, I did not sense that. It’s a hearty, hopped-up flavor, but my major criticism is that it lacks follow-through. The aftertaste is weak and malty, like its forebearers.

I’ll likely buy it again, and please… invite me to one of those pre-Prohibition parties!

New Metrics

I went out to eat tonight with a guy who stunned the wait-staff by demanding — not asking, but demanding — “a shit-ton of ketchup.”  Three servers were delivering our burgers and fries and they stopped, as if paralyzed by phasers on stun.  A bottle of ketchup, about 3/4 full, was already on the table.  Our server, Jerry Lewis, quickly grabbed a half-full bottle of tomato-ey goodness from an empty table, and set it down.

“There!” he said, assuming that he had pleased his guest.  For crying out loud, he ordered a burger and fries, so how much ketchup could he possibly need?

“That’s not enough.  I need a shit-ton!”

The young lady behind me, who seemed to be a manager of sorts, repeated, “A shit-ton!  I don’t know if we even have a shit-ton.  Let me see what we can do.”  To a third server, she said, “Go see if you can find a shit-ton of ketchup.”

“How much is a shit-ton?” the server asked.

“I don’t know.  We usually order it by the case.”

The waiter retreated to the kitchen, one of those open ones where you can kind of see them prepare the food, but not really.  From the pass-through window, everyone in the restaurant could hear the cook’s loud, bellowing reply in richly colorful language, sprinkled with a repetition of the term “shit-ton” and punctuated with the crashing of kitchen utensils.

The waiter returned sheepishly to the table bearing three more partial bottles of ketchup.  I detected a contusion on his forehead above his right eye.  The five partially filled bottles seemed to  satisfy my friend.  We were a little put off that the wait-staff was unaware of the universal standard of weights and measures known as a shit-ton.  The Urban Dictionary defines it thusly:

Shit-ton:  Defined literally as 20 hundredshits, where one hundredshit equals 112 shits in the Imperial System (long or gross hundredshit) and 100 shits in the U.S. System (short or net hundredshit). Furthermore, a shit-ton-force refers to 2,000 shit forces, which is a hell of a lot (i.e. a shit-ton) of Newtons. Example:  “We just received a shit-ton of corned beef from Europe.” Buy stock in Heinz? Absolutely!

SPlatte! Cycling to Chatfield Lake

Colorado features thousands of miles of paved bike trails. The South Platte trail is bounded by a crushed stone running/walking path.

South Platte RocksRafting the SPlatte

At Chatfield Lake

Climbing a 14er

Roundabouts

Hockey and Justice: The Burrows Debacle

Game One of the 2011 Stanley Cup Playoffs between the Boston Bruins and Vancouver Canucks was classic, and one of the best ever.  It ended 1-0, with the lone goal being scored by the Canucks’ Raffe Torres after 59:41.5 of gut-wrenching gritty play and both teams being thwarted by outstanding goaltending theatrics.   The event of the first period would become the burning topic for the next 48 hours.

Alexandre Burrows bites Patrice Bergeron

In a little pushing match behind the Boston net, Patrice Bergeron and Alexandre Burrows put their gloves in each others’ face.  Burrows inexplicably bit the Bergeron’s finger through his gloved hand, drawing blood.  Bergeron pleaded his case to the officials on ice, which should have earned Burrows a game misconduct and possible suspension, but they chose to ignore it.

Despite the fact the incident was captured on national network TV, a luxury for pro hockey in this country, league officials claimed there was no evidence to suspend Burrows for one game.  A precedence for the biting suspension was set in 2009, when Jarkko Ruutu of Ottawa was suspended for biting Buffalo Sabre Andrew Peter’s thumb.  Ruutu was suspended one game and fined $37,707.

Game Two commenced, and ended in a 3-2 overtime victory for the Canucks.  Burrows scored two goals and added an assist in a game that he should not have been allowed to participate.  I was surprised at how vehemently NBC commentators Mike Milbury and Keith Jones criticized the league for its cowardly non-decision.  Milbury was even more steamed over a taunting incident where Maxim Lapierre tried to stick his gloved finger in Bergeron’s mouth, mocking the integrity of the game.

I had indicated surprise that any player had enough teeth to bite another, and joked that Burrows said Bergeron tasted just like chicken, and that every restaurant in Canada would be promoting chicken fingers on their menus.  The only chickens in this whole affair are in the executive offices of the NHL.

The league turned a blind eye to the incident in a cowardly fashion, indeed.  But I believe that in hockey, indiscretions are often worked out between the boards and not in some Toronto board room.  Shame on the league for not taking a bite out of crime.  But even more shame to the Boston Bruins for not making Burrows pay on the ice for his indiscretion.  They should have dogged Burrows on the ice with a Sean Thornton (who was scratched from the contest) or Milan Lucic or the completely dispensible Andrew Ference and crushed him.  Or at the very least send him a message.  Boston did not.

Now, down 2-0 in the series, Boston faces a thoroughly uphill battle to earn its first Stanley Cup in 39 years.  If they fail, they cannot blame the lame administration of the league.  They can blame only themselves.

Gleason’s 12 Rules for Effective Book PR

Kerry’s 12 Rules for Effective PR

by Kerry Gleason

www.GleasonPR.com

Kerry Gleason

Coming Soon: THE HARD STUFF, a handbook for PR and marketing for authors

1. Write a book that is engaging, topical and accessible.
2. ALWAYS carry a copy with you. Display it whenever you can. (Exceptions: the shower, the pool, places of worship, bonfires.)
3. Hone your “elevator speech.” Be able to tell a stranger what your book is about in 1-2 sentences, 30 seconds or less.
4. Look for opportunities to use your expertise. Don’t expect payment. Even non-paid appearances provide the chance a) to sell books, b) to attract other forums, c) to practice your delivery and d) to promote yourself through company/venue newsletters, and through publicity to the general public.
5. Remember who buys books. People do. Go where the people are.
6. One bee does not make a buzz. Use all the bees in your hive to make a big buzz.
7. Press releases – a good idea. What is news – Firsts, fastest, biggest, smallest, etc., controversy. When to send? Upon book release; about scheduled readings or signings; about related topics in the news. Just sending a press release is not enough. You MUST follow up by phone.
8. Interviews? Prepare, prioritize and direct the interview. Know the audience, and develop 3-5 key messages that maximize sales In your pitch you have probably identified the important things you wish to cover. If the interviewer goes on a different tangent, use a bridging technique, such as, “The short answer to your question is (this), but your listeners might also be interested to know (that).”
9. Build a website. Refer people to it.
10. Use social media. “Pimp what you got!”
11. Be persistent. If one avenue hits a roadblock, try another.
12. Don’t get discouraged. Don’t ever diminish what you have written. Timing is critical, as is a positive attitude.

My Friend, Jim Conforti

I’ve been lax about checking phone messages lately. Traveling for a week is part of it, but even before that, I just wasn’t getting many personal calls. Today, I scrolled through my phone and saw a few familiar numbers and one that caught me by surprise. An old New Jersey friend, Bart, called, and my word! I have not spoken to Bart in more than a dozen years. His name came up now and then, but I wondered aloud, “Why would Bart call?”

Uh-oh.

I knew instinctively. I did not have to listen to his message. My hand trembled as I called him back.

“Didn’t you listen to my message?” he asked, his tone imparting that he didn’t want to repeat the news. “It’s Jim. He passed away Sunday.”

Jim Conforti is a special kind of friend who comes along once in a lifetime, if you are lucky. In New Jersey, he became my brother, my friend, my wingman, my travel adviser and a fountain of sarcastic wit. We shared the same taste in women, scotch, Jersey Shore beaches and deprecation of N.Y. Jets’ fans. Once, on a return trip from the Shore, which involved sitting in heavy traffic for about four hours, we stopped at a restaurant that was far too fancy for our beach togs. Over our second glass of scotch, or so, he uttered the singular most funny line ever in the history of mankind. We heaved with laughter for more than twenty minutes, eventually at the point where we forgot what was said to cause our uproar. That, in itself, became the source of laughter for many years.

Many of our New Jersey adventures ended in a stop at the White Castle in Clifton, for a sack of sliders. Not the gourmet types served in restaurants today, but the original wafer-thin slices of beef and onion, each with four holes poked in it, steamed on a perforated pan, then placed on a steamed bun with the perfect combo of ketchup, mustard and American cheese. Jim maintained that White Castle burgers got their flavor from the holes.

Jim was with me for many of my best moments in New Jersey. After I moved to Rochester, he visited, just once, and we ventured north to Niagara Falls, in Canada, to experience “the Canadian Ballet.” It was a two-day expedition filled with laughter. As we left one bar to head to another, the bouncer gave us “you can’t miss it” directions that led us to a one-way, no U-turn entrance with a sign reading “Bridge to the USA.” We talked the tollbooth person into letting us back into Canada, and continued our adventure. The next evening, having believed that we had drained an entire nation of its alcohol supply, we headed for home. As an afterthought, Jim suggested that while we were there, we should at least see Niagara Falls. It was about two in the morning, nearly 3:30 a.m. with the Canadian exchange rate at the time, and it seemed there was nobody else there, although there are always people at the Falls. The mist rose in the January night, coating the metal railings with ice and icicles, and a thick, icy glaze covered the frozen sidewalks. Jim went down, and cracked a rib. “Leave it to you,” I chided him, “to fall and get hurt in a foreign country.” He replied, “I didn’t fall. Didn’t you see that? The world jumped up and smacked me!”

Shortly after that, Jim and his bride Kathy moved to Florida. He is one of the few Jersey friends I’ve stayed in contact with, and we’d have marathon phone calls debating football, when his beloved Dolphins played the Bills, and politics, where Jim’s sarcasm varnished every politician regardless of party or past. Florida life seemed a perfect fit for him, and he was forever urging me to move down there. I stubbornly persisted in my efforts to run my marketing business. After I ran into difficulty collecting from clients, and had my electricity turned off, he sent a check. I never asked. He talked to his wife, Kathy, who barely knew me, and sent it. It could have been a few hundred dollars, or a thousand, or a million. That’s between us. But I’ll share part of the note he sent with it.

He started: “… Anyone who chooses to live in Rochester deserves to freeze his ass off.” Then, he got sarcastic. “… we view you more as a hostage than a willing resident.” On the check was a post-it note, on which he wrote: “Of all my friends, you stand the best chance of becoming a millionnaire. I want in on that!” With that, he lifted me from feeling like a complete loser to a superstar just waiting in the wings.

He was diagnosed more than a year ago with stomach cancer. After his surgery, we spoke only once. He emailed me that he wasn’t ignoring my calls, but that he tired easily when talking. I continued to send emails to make him laugh. No reply.

Then, I got the call from Bart. Jim was dead.

Did you see that? The world just jumped up and smacked me.