Bob Miller, Environmental Reporter

Bob Miller, an environmental reporter for the News Times, has been in his field for 30 years. Even with such a long career under his belt, he spoke of the unpredictability of weather. Storms can hold a course for days, and without warning, turn away at the final hour. Environmental stories can also include pollution scares and concerns from a city or town.

Miller talked about tragedy and the sensitivity of those affected. Direct family members aren't really approachable for an immediate news story, although it is possible to get statements from people such as neighbors and distant relatives. Most families afflicted by tragedy will post signs to turn away press immediately.

He talked about the ice flows that melted, a rare occurrence that happens maybe once or twice in a century. When asked about which was his favorite story, he was quick to reply with the 1994 ice flows. Another story of interest was a drum skinner who imported drum skins that apparently were afflicted with anthrax...a news story that sparked the interest of the entire town, and consequently destroyed the man's career.

Miller shows the scope one person in the field of journalism can cover, and makes it seem a varied and exciting, yet challenging, profession.

Graffiti in Danbury

Graffiti from the Danbury line.

Danbury Police Officer Ken Utter, interviewed by Sandy Carlson on Danbury Graffiti.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ir9nCqTdMVo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06eJhVXHIM8

WCSU: Host of "Future of News" Conference

(re-uploaded)

Western Connecticut State University: Host of "Future of News" Conference

In the previous semester, I'd taken a course on public speaking; a dreary basic requirements course that no one really took willingly. A few basic ideas from that class stuck in my head, but they wern't given a human face James Dyer shared his personal philosophy on interpersonal communications. It was very refreshing to see a more rustic political figure in these times, especially in a very different political era. Seeing a part of the personal life of a politician is something I'd never seen before, either- it's unsettling to think that they would have private lives, hopes, and dreams of their own, too!

Hearing about his struggles against the KKK rally in Danbury, and his stance about racial integration (no one benefits when we pick on a group of people) was inspiring to see. He did well explaining what his role as the Mayor was in Danbury, and he expressed his ideas in a very matter-of-fact sort of manner. He was very easy to like; he presented his faults and trials that made him seem human enough to empathize with, yet strong enough to command.

And then, of course, the corruption charges. Taking money from mall revenues, and all sorts of different characters. Money that he isn't allowed to take.

" Dyer was indicted in 1989. The indictment included one count of racketeering, under 18 U.S.C. Sec. 1962(c) (1988); two counts of extortion, under 18 U.S.C. Sec. 1951 (1988); and four counts of willfully filing false tax returns for the years 1983 through 1986, under 26 U.S.C. Sec. 7206(1) (1988)."

And he got off on all of them, except a tax filing charge. The judge reportedly said something along the lines of "This should not be a proud victory for you". He spent six months in prison, and five years on probation.

You know; sometimes, not trusting anyone works out. He looked like such a nice guy. I feel like somewhat of a coward for not inquiring about it; he certainly wasn't going to talk about any of it on his own, but it wasn't a battle I would have won. He's certainly good at what he does- the public speaking portion of it, anyways.

alackofadhesiveducks

My near death experience, which perhaps didn't bring about any dramatic behavior changes, but cool enough in its own right.

It's the night of my 18th birthday, though not quite midnight so I'm still caught in the age of seventeen. I'm at Roanoke College, and me and some friends are running about between parties, looking for a great time and not really finding it. Or maybe we were, but I'm pretty biased about my whole experience at the college, so I'll never really clearly remember. But I do remember this, with absolutely vivid recollection;
We're at a street, getting ready to cross; someone in our group hurries across the street. Trusting his judgement, assuming he would not try to cross the street with oncoming traffic, I step out to make my way across without looking both ways. And, of course, there is a car, and it's going really fast, at least forty, and at the very last second of its passing, a clutch timing survival reflex that had somehow been latent for all of my sedentary white upper-middle class life rears its head when it is most needed, and I contort my entire body into a curved "C" shape around the contours of the blur of the automobile as it passed by me in the darkness, my face inches from the top ridge of the frame, the side view mirror grazing my belt and shirt as it made its way along.
And, after making it across the street into the back of my friend's car, I loudly recited a fight club quote that was absolutely god damn perfect for the situation, but no one had even seen the bloody movie much less read the book, so I just looked like an idiot. The end.

March 22nd Spring Break No Class

March 29th Review Chapter 7, 18, Quiz and Discussion

April 5th- Profiles due, peer edits in class

April 5th Chapter 13, 20 Quiz + Discussion

April 5th Chapter 13, do exercise 4






The middle brother, on my right, has his eyes fixed on the casket. Or maybe the flowers surrounding the casket, I can't really tell. There's sorrow in his eyes, more than I would come to expect from him, but certainly enough for the occasion. His hands are fidgeting as well, of course not nearly as much as the boy, but he's well into his years and should have this sort of thing under control at this point. Their ties are matching; him and the boy I mean, both a formal red.
Maybe the boy's father dressed him, too. Both of them, fidgeting and eager and maybe a little bit sorrowful. I really would have liked that furthest seat.
The organ player sits down, stretches his knuckles, and sets to work on the keys. That was her favorite part of church, she made that rather obvious, so the three of us made sure to have a decent organ player for her service. The player's hands have barely rolled over a dozen keys, and middle brother has already covered his face in his fingers, giving tears to the crevices of his sweaty palms. I can't even look past middle brother at right brother. My eyes don't let me, and I don't care to fight them. I'm sure he's found a shoulder sturdy enough to cry on, because his wife certainly isn't here. Speeches, eulogies, an hour or so passes, a few glances at my watch, and the funeral is over.


Hours later, I'm back under te

Weekly Blog Post: "Miracle Baby undergoes Hypothermia, Cheats Death"

http://www.aolnews.com/science/article/miracle-baby-bronson-staker-undergoes-hypothermia-to-cheat-death/19397097

"Miracle Baby Undergoes Hypothermia, Cheats Death"

I originally intended to write about Obama's new health care plan, but knowing really nothing about it, I decided to not make a fool of myself.

To summarize the story, an unattended child drowns in a bathtub. CPR efforts by the mother fail, and he is pronounced dead at the hospital. That particular part of this story caught my attention; the idea of pronouncing someone as "dead", especially when it turned out to be a less-than-final verdict. A medical technique called therapeutic hypothermia was called into play as a last effort to save the boy's life. It involves placing the patient under an induced coma, significantly lowering his body temperature, and then, over an extended period of time, brought back to a normal state through a very gradual rise in body temperature. The idea behind it is that when oxygen rushes back to a human brain that has lost circulation, cells in the brain are overwhelmed and are often permanently damaged. Damage is avoided through this technique.

What makes this story special is that the boy has made a nearly full recovery; most patients, if they wake up at all, come back into the world with damaged cognitive function.

Now, what makes this story interesting, at least to me, is the very human concept of what is dead, and what is not. The idea of when a human is dead beyond any medical effort on our part, and when is actually unavoidably passed on, seems limited only by the human knowledge of medical science. And the ceiling for medical science seems pretty high; we're researching how to grow functional human organs- at what point will we be able to synthesize entire human bodies and simply transport the human conscience from one body to another? If, or when, that does indeed happen, it'll surely destroy any concept of religion or God or any of that.

Things will be a lot less romantic, I think. But having a new body any time I need it, and just the general idea of immortality; I can deal with that.

I am in the suite living room. Six of my friends are roaming around throughout various parts of the room. One of my suitemates is wandering around the kitchen, making a meal. Smells of cooking meat emanate from the kitchen, and battle with the smell of a freshly vacuumed carpet. A suitemate sits behind me, typing away on his laptop, with the sound from a computer game in the background. Another suitemate sits adjacent to me, flipping through channels on the massive fifty-five inch LCD television. I can hear someone else slamming on their practice drum kit in the other room, with the rumble of the bass drum particularly audible through the wall. My eyes are squinting from the sunlight through the balcony glass door. A draft of cold air reaches my skin from another room, or perhaps from under the doorway of somewhere else.

There’s a lot of idle chatter passing back and forward. I’m not really paying attention to any of it, as most of it seems casual and hardly private. I hear someone playing with the stove, turning over the cooking meat as it browns. The channel changes once more, and I hit my fingers on the keyboard for the final few sentences.

http://www.walletpop.com/blog/2010/02/28/how-to-stop-phishermen-from-catching/?icid=mainmaindl6link3http%3A%2F%2Fwww.walletpop.com%2Fblog%2F2010%2F02%2F28%2Fhow-to-stop-phishermen-from-catching%2F

"How to stop phishermen from catching" by Jennie L Phipps

This is a fun little "edgy" technology story. Except it's not so much as "edgy" as it is "devoid of any real meaningful content or information", which is particularly embarassing for a piece on a subject matter that has been so wildly explored and over-publicized as much as this has. Having been on the internet for more than 3 years would qualify, really, just about anyone to write this up. The lost Prince of Nigeria isn't really who he says he is, and I shouldn't wire-transfer to him a thousand dollars so that he can reclaim his kingdom?

My favorite part in particular;

"Yoder says the attackers used to be pimply faced 14-year-olds trying to prove how smart they were, but today's phisherman is a full-fledged crook, probably based in an Eastern European country and expert at avoiding or paying off law enforcement."

Good to see the facts straight from the man himself, a fairly irrelevant vice president of engineering in a fairly irrelevant internet security firm. And by facts, I mean vague illusions to stereotypes of characters from crime dramas. Maybe one day, Horatio Crane will finally run down the Prince of Nigeria. In either case, I should probably never go to AOL.com again.

"Citizen journalism" and the publishing power of the internet were points of conversation with guest speaker Eugene Driscoll, the Editor and writer of the Valley Independent Sentinel. Mr. Driscoll gave discourse on a variety of topics, ranging from his views on the current state of print journalism, to the beginnings of his non-profit community oriented news website. Driscoll discussed how the gap between the journalist and the reader has all but disappeared through internet technology. "Letters to the Editor" are a thing of the past, as now the internet allows anyone with access to a computer to publish text for all the world to see.

His site, Valley.newhavenindependent.org, relies on foundation support. In addition to the contributions of Driscoll and a full-time co-worker, the site contracts fifteen to twenty freelance stories per week. The site has a strict news coverage area of the Valley.

"[Internet] Journalism is a two-way communication", said Driscoll. He cited websites such as Facebook and Twitter as "basically, a talking Rolodex". Along with his speech, his website certainly keeps current on internet information technologies. Many stories have links to external sources, video, and other multimedia. Driscoll and his team have shot live video using smartphones on-site during especially dramatic ongoing stories, such as a housefire.

Driscoll was eager to share experiences of high-risk stories. He lives in the community in which he reports, giving him a special connection to the stories he writes. In an aforementioned housefire, Driscoll made a 2 mile drive from his own residence directly to the scene, witnessing an affected family member receiving news of her grandmother's death in the fire. It made for a raw, emotionally graphic scene, one that made for a more compelling news story than "a santized" statement from a first responder given hours later. It made clear to us that Driscoll is a man very passionate about his work. He makes a grand example for young men and women interested in the field, and is a very refreshing sight in a world dominated by big business journalism.

Hurricane Katrina, the infamous natural disaster of 2005, left a proud and culturally rich New Orleans ravaged and in shambles. The relief effort, one that has faced fierce criticism from onlookers and participants alike, came with a call for a batallion of volunteers; a plea for anyone- from highly trained specialists to any pair of hands seeking good hard work.

Dave Adam was among those who heeded the call.

Mr. Adam, a 25 year old former college student of Trinity, was working in a few aimless jobs when he heard the Red Cross' plea for volunteers to assist in the Hurricane Katrina Relief effort.

Dave was quick to cite his reasons for committing to such a undertaking; "looking for adventure" was high on the list, as he saw Katrina as a "once in a lifetime" opportunity.

Adam was stationed with the Red Cross in Biloxit, Mississippi. His task was to operate food delivery routes with other like-minded individuals. The routes were traveled in "ERV"s, or Emergency Response Vehicles, which Adam affectionately referred to as "basically, ice cream trucks". He described the Red Cross relief effort as a three-step wave procedure; summarized in evacuation, food and water distribution, culminating in re-entry of the population and facilitation of reconstruction.

But Dave Adam became intertwined with Red Cross politics when he took note of how his food routes neglected areas that were in dire need, and instead delivered to areas that were often comparatively well off. He cited Hancock County, an area that was in dire need of food delivery, but without obvious explanation had its food delivery route cut off by the Red Cross.

And, Adam got involved. Perhaps even moreso than a route driver should have, or more than the Red Cross would have wanted, but he saw things that simply were not adding up. His biggest move was contacting the Pastor of the local baptist church, a recognized leader in the area, explaining how routes to his community had been shut down. His phone call proved a potent catalyst, and ultimately a massive thorn in the side of Red Cross- rallying the community behind the Pastor, and making very clear to the relief effort that they were neglecting a hoist of hungry mouths. This pushed back the Red Cross' deadline for exiting the area, making Adam's superiors, in his own words, "furious".

This community outrage spurred by Adam's phone call only extended the life of food routes to Hancock County, as they were inevitably shut down once more.

Adam and a few of his trusted contemporaries took physical action. He began ignoring assigned food routes entirely, and brought aid to Hancock County. The Red Cross began to notice misplaced inventory, and fearing theft of aid supplies, began swapping drivers on routes regularly. Adam managed this delicate charade of delivery for nearly two months, but the Red Cross eventually caught on.

Adam had garnered the reputation as a "hippie" during his time as a volunteer, citing his liberal demeanor, long hair and full beard as reasons for being marked as such. And through this, his Red Cross superiors saw a seemingly easy way to out Adam from the relief effort.

He was approached by a superior, and was told that they had evidence of Adam selling marijuana out of one of the relief vans, which Adam vehemently denies to this day. "It simply wasn't true", he said. And back in Biloxit, he was prepared to call their bluff. The Red Cross superior, certainly by no means a representative of the law in any shape or form, said that they had video evidence of the deed at the police station, and would be happy to show it to him.

Adam consulted a friend in the area, and quickly became panicked. He feared an unjust police response from a force under pressure in an increasingly lawless area.

So he chose escape. "I explained the whole situation to my father, who had just drove down with my car for the relief effort when I told him Hancock County routes were being shut down", he said. Adam had seen enough adventure for good, long while.

This a test

to see if the blog actually works?