The Not So Great Gretzky

Let me say this from the outset: I love hockey.
I fell in love with it watching a lousy team that barely lasted two years. That would be the Kansas City Scouts. For those of you born after the Pleistocene era, the Scouts were one of the first National Hockey League expansion teams.
The Scouts were an unmitigated flop for several significant reasons: lousy management, lousy management, lousy management. Did I mention lousy management?
It's not like I didn't know. My boyfriend at the time was the team's director of public relations. He'd previously been the marketing director for what had been a very successful minor league hockey team: the Phoenix Roadrunners.
Back then, between Singapore Slings at Trader Vic's, we'd marvel at the incompetence of the ownership. The most pressing matter during the first season was what kind of canopy to install at the door leading to the arena's private club.
They didn't know a slapshot from buckshot.
In 1976 the team moved to Denver. It was named the Colorado Rockies. This time around the front office was staffed with some pretty savvy hockey folks like Munson Campbell and Ray Miron. There were some gung-ho sales and marketing folks, including Jan Buchholz.
Yeah, that would be me.
I sold corporate season ticket packages. What a trip. Sometimes I'd take players with me to meet with corporate execs. You know ... to make it a little more personal. A little more hands on. I'm not sure how successful that was given that most of the players who came along for the ride spoke only French. C'est la vie!
Despite my vow to spread the joy of hockey throughout the modern world, despite my devotion to the Rockies and its players (including my new boyfriend at the time), despite my enthusiasm for body checks and hooking, I could not save hockey in Denver. The Rockies eventually failed and the NHL moved the club to New Jersey.
Now here's the deal, folks. Hockey is a hard sell in the USofA. Kids in America don't grow up with a pair of skates by the door and an ice rink down the street, especially not in the Sun Belt.
There simply isn't a hockey tradition in this country. That's not to say hockey isn't a welcome diversion or that professional hockey can't succeed here. But it takes a hell of a lot more effort to run a successful NHL team than an NBA or NFL team.
Which now brings me around to the headline of this blog: The Not So Great Gretzky. Wayne, the great player, thought he could skate into town and run the Phoenix Coyotes at stick length. That's a not-so-great idea. Because any chance for the Coyotes to succeed demanded that a lot of time and effort be invested in selling the game of hockey to the masses. It would require a super-human power play that included an unwavering commitment to the community and an all out effort to engage fans.
The Coyotes organization never made that their mission.
Gretzky and his family really live in L.A. He and his glamorous wife have no passion for Phoenix or any sense of obligation to its fans. Could Janet even pick out Phoenix on a map?
Meanwhile, owner Jerry Moyes is a millionaire trucking company founder who apparently has no clue how to handle a business that doesn't run on diesel.
It's a wonder, and a shame, that this club has lasted this long.
Gretzky had plenty of time to build a winner on and off the rink, but he sat on the bench when it came to the really hard work of reaching out to the fans. I don't care how many goals he scored as a player, what I'll remember is his dismal performance with the Coyotes.
But don't worry about the great one. He'll be skating into the western horizon with only his paystubs to remind him of time poorly spent.

Sunday Night, er Monday Morning Live starring Insomnia

I've been sarcastic and cynical probably since at least junior high. I vaguely remember penning satire for the Wheat Ridge Junior High School paper. Oh, and it just came to me that the summer between my 4th and 5th grade years at Westminster Hills Elementary the neighborhood kids and I staged a talent show. My talent? Writing and performing commercials. One in particular was about dishwashing detergent. I started out by showing my "beautiful" hands, which were painted with watercolor to look old and bruised and generally wretched. Of course I waxed poetic about the fine dishwashing liquid that was so gentle on my hands. The audience booed and cackled in melodramatic tradition. I ended up the shill by saying, "If you think this is bad, just look at the bottle." The detergent bottle had been cut up to look like it was corroded, no doubt by toxic chemicals.
The punch line was delivered with grand hysterics, or at least I thought the audience was guffawing with enthusiasm. After all, I am remembering the details some 50 years later.
If only my sarcasm could find a lighthearted outlet today. Right now it's all wrapped up in the business of business, especially the business that I labor in -- news publishing -- and the businesses I cover, mostly real estate and transportation.
Summer talent shows are no longer the medium. My blog is the real-me medium and at times, I'm told the message is biting.
But this is real life for me. Greed, ineptitude, irresponsibility, even cruelty. And no, I am not referring to myself, however flawed I might be. In all sincerity, we don't earn kudos in the newsroom for delivering PR banter. Sometimes informative enterprise stories even are hard to sell.
Still, I do think there is some kind of news form that could fall between the two extremes. What if I wrote about inspiring businesses and people who punctuate their careers with creativity and good will. Would anyone give a rip? More importantly, would anyone pay for it?
I know you're thinking, "Well maybe, but probably not."
But if money didn't matter (and all I care about is paying the basic bills), I would report about creative businesses throughout the Southwest....everything from boutique women's apparel to social media marketing firms to art galleries to independent fashion designers to neuro-studies. Does anyone care about this stuff? Or am I just a child of the Sixties locked into a post 2000 recession world? Got a map? I need directions.

Getting real about real estate reporting

Who knows if I'll be reporting on real estate when the recession recedes, but if I am, I sure hope I'm not a pushover again for developers who think I'm their automatic publicity pimp.
You see, I'm a little cynical about real estate developers these days.
When business is gangbusters and they've got a project on the table, they can't talk enough about their latest and greatest plan. Their public relations people call reporters every five minutes trying to snag front page play. Their clients, after all, are poised to change civilization as we know it.
Just let that gameplan fail, however, and these clients -- along with their PR consultants -- shift into "bin Laden" mode. That's where they are now, hiding out in a cave trying their darndest to escape detection.
I'm thinking particularly of some big name firms in Phoenix who have always prided themselves as being the top-of-the-heap developers. So much more credible and sophisticated than the other development riff raff.
Guess what? Those same companies are in deep doo-doo now, and there's not a living soul in their midst who will discuss the status of projects that impact surrounding neighborhoods and communities.
They don't think they owe any explanations. In fact, these developers now employ PR firms that take pride in keeping clients out of the press. For the record, I don't call that PR. I call that CS. Chicken Shit.
Granted, these are privately held firms that don't have to answer to a board of directors or shareholders. But they should answer to the communities they were so eager to engage in their big ideas.
After all, many developments require zoning changes and other variances, all a public process. For sure, they have to obtain design approvals from various government entitites. Real estate developers never operate in a vacuum.
Some of them may not be operating at all when all is said and done in this market contraction.
I better be on guard when the next cycle winds up.
A new developer will peddle a bigger and better project like it is a done deal blessed by the heavenly realms.
"What about the financing?" I'll ask right up front. "And, no, I am not your defacto marketing pawn who's going to tell your fascinating story to prospective investors."
In the meantime, I hope the local governments who so willingly acquiesced to the hyperbolic visions of haughty developers will smarten up, too. The city doyens of Tempe, Glendale and Mesa, in particular, have all been sold a bill of goods.
Oh, and by the way, trustees of the public dole, you are accountable, too. Expect my call soon.

Columbine, I will not forget

Friday, April 16, 1999, was my last day on the job as a reporter for the Jefferson Sentinel newspapers. It had been a great run. Nine years of covering anything and everything that happened in Jefferson County, the huge area that encompasses Denver’s western suburbs. I knew the territory, not just from being on the newspaper staff, but from growing up there.
Little did I know what would happen the following week after I started as a publicist for a Denver public relations firm.
That next Monday, April 19, I learned that I’d be playing an important role in a press conference scheduled Tuesday at the city of Lakewood, one of several municipalities in "Jeffco."
But wouldn’t you know? Monday night my daughter Kira (@pookachino on Twitter) started running a high fever, and as every single parent knows, some times there are no back-up systems.
I called in sick Tuesday, apologizing profusely and hoping I wouldn't get canned before my first paycheck.
While Kira slept on the living room couch, I dozed in my bedroom. Around noon the phone rang, jolting me out of the twilight zone.
It was my sister.
“Why aren’t you at work?” Julie asked.
“Kira got sick. I had to stay home. I’m suppose to be running a press conference at 2 today,” I said.
Before I could get all the words out, Julie said, “That isn’t going to happen. You need to turn on your TV right now.”
Columbine High School was under siege. Shots were fired. Bloodied bodies marred the school grounds. A slaughter was underway.
Julie lived in a neighborhood a mile or two south of the carnage. My niece, her daughter, attended Columbine, but had graduated. Thankfully. Still, Columbine in many ways was very close to home.
I covered the Jefferson County School District, which included Columbine High. I covered the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, which responded to the shooting. I covered crime and courts and John Stone, the county commissioner turned sheriff. But I would not be covering the story of the century in Jeffco. Instead, I would be a grieving observer just like most everyone else. It still seems like a terrible nightmare.
Now, ten years later I am reading Columbine, a journalist’s account of what really happened before, during and after Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris killed and wounded their classmates and teacher Dave Sanders.
The book is a stunning indictment of how Denver newspapers and television stations latched onto rumor and innuendo, sacrificing truth and journalistic integrity in the process. They carried the national press along wild rapids of speculation and sensationalism. It appears that few, if any, media really questioned the labels and assumptions they had attached hastily to pictures and processes.
Herd mentality is a constant danger for journalists. We need to challenge it every step of the way. Columbine has been an excellent reminder for me to guard against the always tempting rush to judgment.
I’m about halfway through the 417-page book and I’ve learned a lot of stuff I didn’t know before. Sometimes the details are shocking and infuriating.
One aspect of the book I'm not keen on is how much attention is given to the killers. While I appreciate knowing more about these kids and especially their unfairly demonized parents, author Dave Cullen belabors their character oddities. The speculative psychoanalysis, I doubt, is as compelling or accurate as Cullen implies.
Kudos to him, however, for shining a concentrated spotlight on the grave misdeeds of Jeffco government officials, from the sheriff to the district attorney to the county commissioners...all of whom I knew fairly well.
It's sickening to ponder their lies and cover ups. They were unscrupulous public servants who didn't have the guts to come clean.
I'm heading back to the sofa to read the rest of the story, however ugly it might get.
Columbine, I will never forget.

The State of Play and other pressing matters

The new movie State of Play should have been titled State of the Press. Within a twisted plot that weaves in and out of politics, corporate corruption and intimate relationships, the story is really about the changing nature of print journalism.
Russell Crowe plays veteran newspaper reporter Cal McAffrey. A classic slob, Cal's desk in the Washington Globe newsroom is overrun by stacks of paper and yellowed press clips tacked to the wall. He drives a beat up car littered with reporters note pads, junk food wrappers and crap du jour.
The cynical, unkempt McAffrey isn’t without his fans, though. He’s managed to attract a slew of trustworthy inside sources who are willing to help him find the good stuff even at the risk of their own hides. McAffrey doesn’t care whether he looks good or wins any popularity contests. His mission is more than skin deep. He’s got to find the truth and tell the story. Even at the risk of getting shot or getting fired or losing close friends or losing sight of some journalistic mores.
He is, after all, pursuing truth. I'm not defending some of his choices, but how many journalists distill their mission down to those two words? "Pursuing truth." Not many, I fear.
Recently my fellow reporter Chris Casacchia estimated that of all journalism graduate students at Arizona State University at least 70 percent are planning careers in public relations. Not reporting. I was stunned.
A fatter paycheck awaits in PR, of course. Plus, the reality is that newspapers are going out of business quicker than you can yell, “Extra. Extra. Read all about it!” It's also a very stressful profession. According to research conducted at the University of Manchester in England, being a journalist is as stressful as being a prison guard or an airline pilot.
Deadlines are called deadlines for a reason.
In the movie, McAffrey knows the journalism landscape is shifting. The Globe has hired a beautiful young cub reporter to write a political “lite” blog. He doesn’t take her too seriously at first, but then challenges her to be more than a journalistic lightweight. The dialog between McAffrey and newbie Della Frye allows them to touch on some timely issues facing the fourth estate. But not too much. This is entertainment, after all.
So, I will state the obvious.
Media conglomerates that are publicly-held corporations own most of the newspapers. For them, it’s the earnings, stupid. Truth and disclosure might be nice, but not at the expense of profit and keeping shareholders content.
Plus, it’s really getting expensive to keep those industrial age newspaper presses running in this age of online accessibility. That's just fact.
The movie, as we all know, isn't fact, but it is fun. In the end, the oldster and youngster team up to get the scoop, risking life and limb in the process. The exclusive is pounded out just in the nick of time. The presses roll and the front page shouts to the masses that once again serious journalism has performed an heroic duty.
God, it made me feel wonderful. I love being a journalist. What an awesome career.
Not that it’s a safe one. Nor should it be.
Take, for example, tomorrow. There may be a pink slip waiting. Reporters have been let go in droves the past several years. The economics of newsprint aren’t working any more. Then, there's the issue of diminishing ad revenues due to the bad economy. But also, there are so many other advertising vehicles. Never again will newspapers be the only game in town. In fact, it hasn't been that way for a long time.
In the meantime there will be a revolution of sorts. There will be blood, or at least rivers of ink no longer needed in the age of cyberspace. Somehow the profession will survive. But will it survive with integrity?
Journalists, this is our moment to speak. Investigative reporting still matters. Thoughtful storytelling still matters. Passion still matters. Pursuing the truth is an honorable mission.
Publishers, this is your moment to invest in truth and commit to the cost of employing quality journalists who aren’t afraid to chase the truth. Stop the presses, if you must, but don’t stop pressing for reporting that matters.

Of McCain, Libertarians and HAWGS

Last night John McCain appeared on Jay Leno looking tan, rested and comfortable in his own wrinkles. He displayed the proper amount of humor, humility and chutzpah. And he officially announced that once again he is running for the Senate.
Really? For the sake of the country, why don't these old timers make their mission to mentor and support some young politicians? Arizona needs some fresh faces. Not the same tired images of the Wild West Posse or the Old Boys' Network.
Let's train, mentor and encourage young people to run for political office, and throw our support around them rather than discourage them with the status quo. A status quo that is held firmly in place by big bucks and little creativity.
Seriously, John, this would be a great time to take someone under your wing and move on. Give some youngsters a chance at serving their country. Find a worthy young veteran and show that man or woman the way.
Now on to the topic of Libertarians. I've known many of them during my years as a reporter. The Independence Institute is very big in Denver. Former Congressman Tom Tancredo ran the Independence Institute for many years, pushing his agenda to slam the doors shut on illegal immigration. I remember back in the early 1990s when he invited me to an Independence Institute breakfast. It was packed with people listening to the many evils of illegal immigration.
Looking around at the early morning crowd, it was clear that I was in the minority, surrounded by a phalanx of middle-aged white guys in the requisite suits and ties.
They seemed to ooze with a certain self-assurance. Then I it came to me.
"I shall call these smug dudes 'The HAWGS.'" The heartless, affluent white guys.
Seriously, how many poor people, women or minorities do you know who call themselves Libertarians?
Hey, I welcome the debate, but I do not need a HAWG to save me from myself.
Not that I'm bitter, though. I've enjoyed some spirited discussions with Libertarians over the years, and their arguments against things like public transportation and universal health care sound very rational. But also lack empathy and compassion.
There is, however, one area where I kind of agree with them. They're usually ardent supporters of term limits. If eight years is enough for the President of the United States then that's probably enough for members of Congress.
In case you're wondering, McCain has been in the House and the Senate for 27 years. Time's up.

A lame moment in PR

I've been a journalist for a long time, but today's lame PR moment was a first for me. When I arrived at work, I had both an email and a voicemail from a commercial real estate broker telling me to call him right away.
Cool, I thought. Maybe a news tip.
Ha! He was complaining about a story I wrote last week because one of the sources I quoted was his "biggest competitor."
Duh. What in the world is he talking about? Just like you readers, I had to follow this trail to find out what the problem was.
Here's the deal. I wrote about a large commercial lease deal, obtaining quotes from the developer and from the new tenant. I then got a quote from an outside source, someone who has been a trusted source for the past two years, about the current market leasing activity.
Keep in mind this story was all of 10 inches. A very quick hit.
The gentleman on the end of the phone line, however, said he should have been my third source since he actually brokered the deal. That's right. He wanted to tell me who I should quote, and since I neglected him, he wanted a printed retraction. Nevermind that the story was accurate. Just to add a little pathetic humor to the situation, he had the audacity to say, "This is the kind of news story we'd make copies of and send to clients and now I can't because you quoted my biggest competitor."
He actually thought it was my duty to aid and abet his promotional efforts.
Later I received an email from this company's long time PR consultant. She also questioned my choice of sources and wondered how she could explain this oversight to the higher ups.
I was completely befuddled. Since when are these kinds of issues my problem? And since when is someone who has been in the PR business for many years, so clueless about how a reporter puts together a story?
Ultimately she concluded that she should have been more involved in the process and that she should better educate her clients.
Fine with me. I hope she explains very pointedly that reporters aren't obligated to write about every person involved in a deal or to quote anybody specifically.
Besides, how the heck was I suppose to know that her client felt especially threatened by my outside source?
This could be fodder for a reality show/sitcom/ESP drama translated into a night time soap opera.
Desperate housewives, step aside and make way for desperate real estate brokers. Never before have so many tears been shed over martinis at the Capital Grill.

Time to apply some CPR to ASU's PR

Officals at Arizona State University say they always intended to honor President Barack Obama when he delivers the commencement address next month. Just not with an honorary doctorate degree. Instead, an important scholarship will bear the President's name.
The way the whole public relations snafu played out, I can't help but think the scholarship announcement simply was a knee jerk reaction to the bad press the school received from every corner of the country. Had ASU President Michael Crow and his doctorate committee really intended to do that from the get-go or was this just a way to save face?
Probably only a handful of insiders really knows what the dynamics were among ASU officials after news broke that ASU would not bestow Obama with an honorary doctorate degree.
Their explanation for the snub? Obama hasn't amassed a sufficient body of work to warrant the honorary degree.
C'mon. This is the first Black President of the United States. Through his childhood and career, he's survived poverty, racism and the brutality of a national political campaign. He's brought hope to millions of disenfranchised Americans. He's brought a sense a calm to a world that is reeling from the brink of economic catastrophe. That's a pretty impressive resume, even though there are bound to be failures down the road. Hey, he's human.
Still Michael Crow is not sufficiently impressed. He's one of the most powerful college presidents in the country and he's known for calling the shots. But this time Mr. Big Shot has missed the target. Perception is everything and Crow completely misjudged the public outcry that would surface when he and his minions decided to withhold this high, but largely symbolic, honor.
How many people who have received honorary doctorates really deserve them? A few, yes, but not usually. In this case, giving Obama a doctorate should have been a no-brainer. It's a matter of goodwill and public perception.
Remember when Jennifer Aniston accused Brad Pitt of lacking a sensitivity chip? I'm wondering if someone here in Tempe could use a sensitivity transplant. That might be just what the doctor ordered.