January 2004 Archives

By Vincent Safuto staff writer

January 31, 2004

"These are the days of miracle and wonder."

Paul Simon

"The Boy in the Bubble," 1986

Growing up in New York, what I knew about Florida was that it was where Disney World was located, and that it was where rockets were launched to the moon and outer space.

The latter held a lot more interest for me, I am proud to say, and the latest space adventures on Mars are beyond anything Disney could ever dream up.

I sat up late one Saturday night (into Sunday morning) recently and watched the team at the storied Jet Propulsion Laboratory as they waited to hear if the Martian Rover Opportunity had arrived safely on the Red Planet.

Such wonders are becoming routine, though I was still worried about the Rover Spirit and its computer memory problems. As is usual with humans, our ingenuity may have at least partially resolved those problems. But here was another Rover about to make its bouncy debut on another world.

In a way, something would have been lost if we had a live picture of the Rover's arrival. All we had was a live shot of the control center The tension was palpable as the news was relayed.

"The parachute has opened."

"The heat shield's been ejected."

"The retrorockets are firing."

Mind you, this all had happened hours before, and the news was just arriving on our little world. We couldn't see any of it except in an animated simulation, but it was exciting nonetheless.

"It's bouncing."

"It's still bouncing."

"It's stopped bouncing! We're on Mars!"

OK, maybe it's not the same as Neil Armstrong saying "Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed." But it's still an awesome event in my book.

Later, after I had gone to sleep, the first pictures from Opportunity came back. What a strange world it awakened on after its voyage in our solar system.

The late astronomer and author Carl Sagan dreamed of going to Mars, and, in his TV series "Cosmos" declared, "Mars is a world of wonders." I wish he were alive to see the pictures and celebrate with the teams at the Pasadena, Calif., jet lab.

The first little rover we sent to Mars was called Sojourner Truth, part of the Mars Pathfinder mission, launched in December 1996 and landing on July 4, 1997. The lander was named the Carl Sagan Memorial Station in honor of Sagan, who dreamed of roving robots exploring the surface of the planet Mars.

It will take years, maybe decades, to understand the information we got from that intrepid little rover, and now from the bigger and more advanced rovers that follow.

Maybe that's why President Bush wants to commit our nation to a voyage to that mysterious world next door. Part of me sees it as an extravagance we can ill afford, but there's the less cynical part of me that wants to watch humans walk on the sands of that red planet so many have dreamed about.

Vincent F. Safuto is a copy editor for the Press Journal. Reach him at ( Vincent.Safuto@scripps.com).


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By Vincent Safuto staff writer

January 24, 2004

It's hard to believe, but in a society that tries to automate almost anything, one automotive throwback has managed to survive: the manual transmission.

Back in 1993, I joined the faith, so to speak, when I bought a Saturn with a five-speed manual gearbox. It was a willing conversion, though my test drive was thrilling for the salesman. He had to drive the car back to the dealership when I just couldn't get my act together and get the car moving from a standing start.

My fun with manual transmissions went back to the Marines, when it was decided that someone in VMA-513 Avionics needed to get a license to drive government vehicles and, being expendable, I was sent to be tested.

The motor pool was almost all automatic-transmission vehicles, save for one Dodge pickup that had "three on the tree." Since that could be assigned, everyone had to take the road test in the manual transmission-equipped truck. Mercifully, my tester ended the effort before I destroyed the vehicle, and sent me back to face the wrath of the sergeants in the shop.

Years later, I just thought having a manual transmission would be cool. I had learned to land a Cessna on a runway; shifting gears couldn't be that hard, could it?

I was somewhat worried, however. I had signed the papers to buy the car before it even arrived. Would I be able to drive it from the dealer's lot without making a fool of myself?

When I picked up my new Saturn, starting out and shifting turned out to be as easy as pie and, over the course of six years, I became an accomplished clutch-and-stick person.

But then the lure of a newer, larger car snagged me, and I had to backslide. Yes, I left the bosom of the stick shift for a car with a — gasp! — automatic transmission. For the first few days I was puzzled about what to do with my left leg, which had learned the ins and outs of the Saturn clutch pedal so well.

Well, I have seen the light, so to speak, and my new 2004 car has a five-speed manual transmission. A real one, with a clutch pedal, not those pseudo-manuals they sell nowadays.

Again, I was kind of worried before I took delivery of the car. Was it really like riding a bicycle, shifting gears in a car? That ballet of gas pedal, clutch and brake would require some practice. I thought that it would look awful if I ended up lurching off the dealer lot in my new car.

Again, my worries were pointless. I drove off pretty smoothly for someone who hadn't used a clutch in four years, and while I'm still a little rusty, no one's bouncing off the dashboard.

It'll be a sad day when the manual transmission is finally put out to pasture, but I think there will always be drivers who want to shift for themselves. And I'll always be one of them.

Vincent F. Safuto is a copy editor for the Press Journal. Reach him at ( Vincent.Safuto@scripps.com).


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By Vincent Safuto staff writer

January 17, 2004

Several months ago, I visited a friend who was recovering from several very difficult operations for cancer, and was living temporarily in a very nice facility in West Palm Beach.

Her husband and I have been friends for several years, too, and I was relieved to see her well and him happy again.

The facility was sort of a recovery area for people who had had operations, and was so clean and well-organized you could eat off the floors. More places need this kind of commitment and attention to detail, I thought.

I was walking toward her room when I noticed that there were several patients receiving intravenous drugs, probably chemotherapy, and I saw a woman standing next to the nurses' station holding what looked like a stuffed dog. That is, until the "stuffed" dog turned its head.

The woman walked over to one of the patients, and asked, "Would you like to pet the dog?"I've never had chemotherapy, but I know that being able to pet an animal when under stress is one of the best ways to take one's mind off one's problems and suffering.

It's a common belief that animals are the worst thing you can ever introduce into the environment of a place for healing. And not far behind that is children. I remember when my father had his first heart attack in the early 1970s, and the subterfuges used so I could visit him.

Such was the fear of germs and infection, though this was a place where not only staff, but patients, smoked openly. Go figure.

Despite those phobias, pets can be so therapeutic.

Though I haven't been to the hospital for treatment in years, and probably shouldn't go after all those things I wrote about dietitians, I've experienced my own form of pet therapy. Having four cats loose in the house can be bothersome at times, but there are moments when it's worth it.

One of those was a recent morning when I was lying on my stomach in bed and debating whether I should get up and start the day. I was tense and stressed, but it all went away when Tommy, the big male cat, leaped on the bed, walked onto my back and stretched out on his side.

It was like one of those massages that leaves your muscles untensed. Tommy then got up, maneuvered himself next to me on the bed, and began a quiet purr. I petted him and he licked my hand. A few minutes later, he bit me, but it was the gentle love bite that cats give when they want to remind you that they were once wild. Then it was back to purring and licking.

At that moment, I was content and relaxed. Tommy the cat was cuddling his dad and all was right with the world.

Maybe, someday, every place of healing will have a place where people can just stroke an animal for a little while, and let them work their magic.

Vincent F. Safuto is a copy editor for the Press Journal. Reach him at ( Vincent.Safuto@scripps.com).


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By Vincent Safuto staff writer

January 10, 2004

One of my inspirations for getting into the news business, besides the need for a job that didn't involve punching a time clock at a postal facility, was a TV program I taped several years ago and still watch occasionally when I need to get remotivated.

It was an episode of the PBS series "American Masters," and it was about Edward R. Murrow.

I suppose the saddest thing about the news business today is how television, which is capable of doing so much good, is so misused. Every time I turn on a cable news channel, I imagine that Murrow is turning over in his grave.

Print journalism may be a slowly dying beast as the TV news crews and Internet become dominant forces, but I've always thought that while we have our share of things to be ashamed of, like Stephen Glass and Jayson Blair, we are so limited in space and personnel that there is little time to waste.

So we don't devote significant proportions of the paper to the latest missing women, or interviews with just about everyone and anyone who ever came into contact with this woman, or the press conferences which are covered live, but at which there is nothing new to announce, followed by analysis.

When a story of real import, like the mad cow scare or Sept. 11, 2001, hits, we treat it as vitally important and give it a lot of our limited space so readers know it's important to them and their lives.

Television news has come a long way in the technological sense, but that technology often is used to deceive. The celebrity reporters on magazine shows seldom do any of their own legwork; that's the job of the segment's producer, who also is charged with making sure the reporter gets taped while pretending to be tracking down the story.

An alien from another planet watching our cable news programming would be convinced that we're obsessed with young women who have disappeared. One wag suggested a few months ago that CNN's "Larry King Live" should be renamed "Laci Peterson Dead" for the excessive coverage and "exclusive" interviews that revealed little or nothing to advance the story.

The names and locations may change, but these stories follow a typical arc, with the mysterious disappearance, the church services, the police press conferences, the amateur videos or this or that event at which the victim appeared, and interviews with just about everyone who ever knew the missing person on Larry King, Dateline and 20/20.

And then endless speculation and analysis from "experts." Media types say the public has a short attention span; I say the public has an instinctive sense of what's important and what's a waste of its time.

Watching "Edward R. Murrow: This Reporter" for the umpteenth time always is two hours well spent, if only to remind me why I work in this business, and why it matters so much.

Vincent F. Safuto is a copy editor for the Press Journal. Reach him at ( Vincent.Safuto@scripps.com).


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By Vincent Safuto staff writer

January 3, 2004

A recent story on the Associated Press wire caught my attention because it brought back memories of my early post-Marine Corps boot camp days.

The story was about the men and women of our armed forces, and their financial travails when they get deep in debt. Most of the blame in the story was placed at the doors of "payday lenders," whose shops line the road to military bases and offer allegedly "easy credit" to the troops.

There always have been dubious temptations just outside the gates of every military base. These come-ons, designed to coax dollars out of servicemen's pockets, probably have existed since the days of the Roman legions.

I went to electronics school at the now-closed Naval Air Station in Millington, Tenn., about 20 miles from Memphis, back in late 1978. Even then, there was talk of shutting the base down. The town put up big posters, one of which declared "We love the Navy — every day." The more cynical among us would mentally add "...and not just on the 15th and 30th."

The regular stores and fast food outlets were not the problem then, but there were some places that really hit the troops with the hustle and the hard-sell.

Of course, they didn't just put up a sign that read, "Blow your next paycheck — and the one after that, and so on — in our business." No, they were a lot more subtle.

One place, brightly lit and full of board games, pinball machines and the quarter-devouring video games that were just coming into fashion, dubbed itself the "Servicemen's Recreation Center."

I naively entered the place on my first liberty in Millington and found it oddly unsullied by the presence of servicemen. A fellow who had called to me from outside to come in and enjoy myself played a few games of chess with me, and then began his pitch for me to buy jewelry for my girl back home, or my mother.

I managed to escape with my cash supply intact, and every time I walked past the place I noticed that it was almost always empty. Recreation, it seems, had its price.

There were several other places that tried similar methods, including one place with the eternally hopeful sign, "Attention all military: E-1 and up," which I always found funny for some reason.

The temptations of easy credit are a bigger threat than America's enemies to its men and women in uniform. Banks hand out credit cards like they used to hand out lollipops to children, and for someone pulling down a paycheck for the first time, whipping out that rectangular plastic and leaving a store with goodies is great fun. At least until the envelope arrives with the bill, and you have to pay it all back.

While I'm angry at those who try to ennoble their sharp practices with the insistence that they're serving those who serve the nation, the troops today should realize that part of personal responsibility is managing their credit correctly — and learning to avoid the financial sharks that swim just outside the front gate.

Vincent F. Safuto is a copy editor for the Press Journal. Reach him at ( Vincent.Safuto@scripps.com).


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