Matt Ried

One-by-one the members of the infamous “wall-people” at the mighty Mezz move on.
“Wall-people” because we worked under the plaque-wall at the mighty Mezz, the back wall of the newsroom.
It was the wall on which the Messenger hung the many plaques it had won. (“There is no plaque in the Dental Hall of Fame.”)
Working under the plaque-wall was an adventure.
Next to my cubicle, and that of adjacent Bill Robinson, later Marcy, was a pressroom that contained a small individual sheet-fed press; so we were constantly entertained with “ka-thunka, ka-thunka, ka-thunka, ka-thunka.”
Next to Ried’s cubical was a tiny break-room for the drudge hourlies.
That break-room had a Coke-machine that occasionally malfunctioned.
One time Matt was quietly beavering away on his ‘pyooter, when suddenly “KER-WHAM!” The plaque-wall thrust about six inches toward him, setting all the plaques a-tittering.
The thermostat for the entire vast newsroom was over Matt’s cubicle, and the newsroom was always ice cold.
Marcy, huddled beneath her heavy sweater, used to say that thermostat was on crack.
The scuttlebutt was that Matt’s monitor, a giant heat-emitting CRT screen, was throwing off the thermostat; so elaborate cardboard shielding was constructed to shield the thermostat from his monitor.
But it didn’t make any difference; the newsroom was still a refrigerator.
Most irksome to me was the telephone in the adjacent mailroom out back, a contrivance that could wake the dead.
The idea was to make it loud enough to override all the throbbing racket.
“Will somebody please answer that thing?” I’d shout.

—Robinson was the first to leave.
Me, Robinson and Matt Ried were the original Messenger “Electronics Department;” Robinson the head-honcho, Ried the webmaster, and me, as stroke-survivor, the tag-along.
Their responsibility was the Messenger web-site, among other things, although the idea was for me to master it, which I did.
Ried and Robinson were also ‘pyooter paginating pages for the daily newspaper, and they did quite a few.
I never did this, but was more partial to the web-site anyway, although I was also doing other things.
The web-site we were doing was version number-two, the Z-Wire version, a version that only worked off our single clunky PC.
It worked pretty well, except a lot of dickering was done on-site at the mighty Mezz; including conversion to HTML.
I remember driving Ried and Robinson crazy with my questions. “Don’t think, just do,” Matt used to say.
“I can’t do it if I don’t understand what’s going on,” I’d respond.
Robinson was the Local-Editor, and he tired of all the madness of trying to keep up for peanuts.
He was also upset over how his wife, a Messenger Advertising-Rep, was being mistreated.
So they both quit; he shortly after his wife.
Robinson went on to get a “stupid, meaningless job” (my nomenclature — like bus-driving), that paid more for less madness.
I told him to never put his pen down — he had also written a local weekly column before leaving.

—Robinson was replaced by Marcy, who I first called “the new girl;” but that was perceived as negatory, so I stopped.
By then production of the Post weeklies had gravitated to the palatial Messenger offices in Canandaigua, so Marcy was roped into doing the Post front-pages, and other Post pages. And so Marcy discovered the madness of trying to meet printing deadlines with people from outside offices that didn’t understand printing deadlines.
Copy would appear after deadline, and then those outside editors would be incensed it couldn’t be included.
Meanwhile: —1) “ka-thunka, ka-thunka, ka-thunka, ka-thunka;” —2) the mailroom phone waking the dead; —3) Ried frantically trying to escape his cubicle when the Coke-machine was hurled against the plaque-wall; and —4) Marcy shivering.
One time Marcy was telling her aunt (Nancy Brown; chief artist at the mighty Mezz) about the Five-Star Crash rating on the Honda CR-V Marcy was considering. “So go out and crash one today,” I said.

—I left next, suddenly retired due to health-issues — which if they hadn’t occurred I probably woulda stayed around longer.
By then we had moved on to web-site number three, and first I was doing all the Post sub-sites, although later Matt and I switched when I went part-time.
Part-time was a reaction to declining health and advancing age; I was no longer able to do a 40-hour (or more) week.
The dreaded “Night Spots” was my greatest challenge; and was such a beast I told the Managing Editor it might retire me.
But in the end I was also doing the Messenger web-site; a function I enjoyed, because that web-site could reflect my prerogatives, the main of which was to throw a lot of pictures on it.
I always felt the web-site was primarily a visual medium, and that it was the future of journalism.
And that was despite our web-site being rather turgid — a generic sample from our web-service.
But Ried and I never had a chance to improve it. All we could do was fly it; and that was usually a mess.
We were using a web-service from Ann Arbor, Mich., and things often didn’t crunch.
Their angle was they generated a web-site for us; and also converted all our stuff to HTML.
But how many times did I call Ann Arbor from home; our web-site wasn’t flown. I’d fix things from my home rig, or often had to drive back to the mighty Mezz to do everything over.
And of course, calling Ann Arbor was “please hold during the silence: Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka......” I’d get shoved on hold for a half-hour or more.
I had to talk directly to their head tech guy, whose name I forget; the only way to actually get anything done.
He’d hang up, kick his servers angrily a few times, and then call back saying “send it again; everything went into never-never land.”

—Marcy left next; a victim of puny income, and increasing Messenger madness. She had to work two jobs to exist.
Together she, and future husband Bryan Mahoney (at one time the Messenger Canandaigua reporter, and I always felt the best I ever knew; primarily because he rode the 100-foot Canandaigua Waterpark water-slide, the best way to report same), moved to near Boston, Mass., no job for either. Marcy was my number-one ne’er-do-well, the first I was e-mailing stuff to. She saved everything I sent into a ‘pyooter folder — she thought it was hilarious. Like minds I guess; similarly wacko.

—And now the Webmaster is moving on.
I picked up a bunch of stuff from him. I still use MyCast, the weather-radar he clued me in on.
And “if Matt can do it, so can I;” which is how I figured out how to use my cellphone as a calculator.
Matt wasn’t really a “wall-person” when he arrived. He’s a Postie; one of the people that came to us after our buyout of the Post papers.
But we made him a “wall-person.” So much junk was flying about, what could he do? He became a part of it.
One day we were discussing animal-rights, and Matt says “vegetables have rights too.” Attaboy Matt; you are now officially a “wall-person.”
Matt is somewhat disabled; but not much. I guess he had Spina-Bifida or something, and has to use crutches to get around.
But it hasn’t slowed him any. Like me, he’s ornery, and ain’t lettin’ no disability compromise what he wants.
I guess he’s flown airplanes, even a P51 Mustang. He may even have his pilot’s license; I bet he does.
Matt was also my source about propeller airplanes. Like most at the mighty Mezz he knew a lot about certain subjects; me it was trains and cars and propeller airplanes and ‘50s rock-and-roll.
Matt was propeller airplanes; I could rely on him to know esoterica about the Corsair fighter-plane, the P38 Lightning, the P40 Warhawk, and the P51 Mustang. He was my source about radial engines; even better than the dreaded Internet.
“One of the best sounds ever is a big honkin’ radial engine,” Matt used to say.
“The next airshow I attend will have a Connie in it,” I told him. That’s the Lockheed Constellation, “Prettiest airplane ever made,” said Matt.
We were on the same wavelength.
Matt goes to Denver, Col.; same condition as Marcy, jobless.
Plan A is marketing or Public-Relations, what Marcy fell into. Plan B is journalism. Plan C is Emergency-Medical-Services; a side-job he did in this area. He was a dispatcher for the local medavac helicopter service.
I remember a circulation person collapsing on the floor once at the mighty Mezz. Matt sprang into action. She coulda had a stroke; and I had one.
But Matt was way ahead of me.
What Matt ended up doing at the mighty Mezz was way more than mere reporting. Like me, he fell into ‘pyooter functions he was interested in, and could therefore do.

—That leaves only one “wall-person” remaining at the mighty Mezz; the so-called “Hasidic Jew,” my friend L. David Wheeler, a Houghton-grad, now Arts & Entertainment Editor.
Wheeler’s cubicle wasn’t actually on the plaque-wall, but it was the same aisle; i.e. within earshot of everything we were saying.
One day I commented “If the King James Version was good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.”
That stopped Wheeler in his tracks.
He turned around slowly, and said “I bet somebody actually said that, didn’t they.”
“Yes,” I said.
“And you saved it for posterity, didn’t you?” Wheeler said.
“Yes,” I solemnly intoned.
Another time I said: “One minor side-effect of this medicine is death. If you experience death, please contact your physician immediately.”
Wheeler picked right up on it. “If death persists more than four hours, please contact your doctor.”
Wheeler is as wacko as the rest of us. After all, he once worked near Wildwood, N.J. at the infamous “Wendy’s-from-Hell.” He declared south Jersey is the fiberglass pink-flamingo capitol of the universe.

The departure-party for Ried was at Mulconry’s, an Irish pub in deepest-darkest Fairport.
Mulconry’s was on Liftbridge Lane, hard by the Erie Canal, once the right-of-way of the Rochester, Syracuse & Eastern interurban line. The entire area is awash in restaurants, boutiques and funky shops; what passes for socializing in the new century.
Party-time was 6:30 p.m., and I arrived at 6:20, having no idea how long it would take to get there. I went inside and was greeted by a hostess with a heavy Irish brogue; but then walked back outside, seeing no one I knew.
I crossed the street and sat down on the curb of a parking-lot — hoping I’d see someone I knew. (I was reading a drag-racing book I’d brought along.)
Finally Matt appeared, walking up the street. We went inside, and sat at the bar. Matt ordered a “Harp” draft, and I ordered nothing. I have to drive home, and I don’t like what alcohol does anyway.
Finally a few showed up, but at least half were people I didn’t know — people that Matt had worked with, or was currently working with.
The only ones from my vaunted “Ne’er-do-Well” list (beside Matt) were Syverud and Wheeler.
“So when is your last day?” someone asked.
“About three hours ago,” Matt answered.
That insanity was in place even when I was there. When Matt hit 40 hours, he was supposed to walk out, no matter what. (How many Fridays did I complete the web-site because he had to leave?)
There was discussion about Messenger telephone policy. Apparently it had come down from on high that people weren’t answering their phones.
Like here they are trying to put a newspaper together at the last minute, and they’re supposed to answer their phones even if so doing makes the newspaper late.
So management’s wisened reaction was for page-editors to assign someone to answer for them; voicemail was no longer acceptable.
“I’d rather get voicemail than some clueless idiot that has no idea what they’re doing,” Wheeler observed.

The “mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over two years ago. Best job I ever had.

“There is no plaque in the Dental Hall of Fame......” is an old Bob & Ray joke I frequently repeated under the plaque-wall at the Messenger.

“CRT” (Cathode-Ray-Tube) is the video technology that has been used since the dawn of television. Now video-screens have advanced to non-CRT technology; that found on flat-screens. Computer displays were CRT at first, but now many are flat-screen. (My own monitor is CRT.)

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

“Z-Wire” is a web-service that does many newspaper web-sites.

RE: “Single clunky PC........” —When I first was employed at the Messenger newspaper, we were uncomputerized (no Personal-Computers used in newspaper generation), except for a few Windows PCs that were used for four-color front-page generation — black (the story-text) was still un-PC. One PC was the Rastorized-Image-Processor (RIP); it sent three color separation negatives (cyan, magenta, and yellow) to an image-setter for the front pages. —When the newspaper computerized (full ‘pyooter pagination), it did so with all Apple Macintosh. We saved one PC — the RIP. It was converted to other PC functions. It had Windoze-95 as an operating-system, and was rather unstable. It was a clunker; held together with paper-clips. Whatever software was on it came from the network; there were no longer any functional drive-inputs.

For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, N.Y. My stroke ended that.

RE: “Post weeklies.....” —When I first started in 1996, we were only the Canandaigua Daily Messenger newspaper. But later we bought the “Post weeklies,” eight weekly suburban newspapers published by “Post Publications.” (We later bought another independent suburban weekly.) The Post’s majordomo retired and soon died. He sold Post Publications to the Messenger.

Some of the Post weeklies were done at “outside offices;” not Canandaigua.

A “CR-V” is an SUV car made by Honda. We have one ourselves, a 2003.

Two+ years ago I was experiencing dizzy-spells, but am not any more. They’re why I retired.

RE: “Post sub-sites.....” —Under the third web-site iteration, we had one grand web-site, which was comprised of: -1) the Daily-Messenger’s site, which was updated every day, and -2) eight (then nine) Post sub-sites, one for each weekly, and they were updated weekly.

“Night Spots” was a computerized file of live entertainment at local night-clubs. We ran it once a week, so it had to be constantly updated. It was such a struggle I always felt I was shorting it; even though it was a free ad.

The “Managing Editor” at the Messenger is Kevin Frisch, a very good person.

RE: “Postie......” —Ex of Post Publications.

“Radial engines” are internal combustion gasoline engines, with cylinders arrayed in a circle around a central crankshaft. —The application was most normally seen on airplanes, almost always air-cooled. A typical radial airplane engine might have 18 cylinders; two rows of nine each. The crankshaft turned a propeller.

RE: “Dreaded Internet” is the World-Wide Web. “Dreaded” because it’s not very reliable. It has various misspellings for “Hillary Clinton” and “Dulles Airport.” It erroneously claims the Pennsylvania Railroad was built with four tracks. It was originally built with one or more tracks; four came later.

The “Lockheed Constellation” is a post WWII propeller airliner; four radial engines — recognized mainly by its triple tailfins.

“Houghton” is Houghton College in western New York, from where I graduated with a BA in 1966. I’ve never regretted it. Houghton is a religious liberal-arts college.

“Fairport” is an old suburban village on Rochester’s east side. It’s on the Erie Canal; thus the name.

An “interurban” is a rural trolley-line, but it had bigger cars that could attain faster speeds. The Rochester, Syracuse & Eastern was a premier east-side interurban out of Rochester that only attained Syracuse. Service was phenomenal, since it had a two-track mainline. (Most interurbans were only one track.)

The “Ne’er-do-Wells” are an e-mail list of everyone I e-mail my stuff to.

“Syverud” is Mark Syverud (“SYE-ver-rud”), once an editor at the Messenger newspaper. He later managed the Post weeklies. He retired not too long ago.