Copy editors on Twitter? MIA

Journalists who live on Twitter -- and there are plenty -- like to re-tweet other news accounts, as well as their own. PR people call this "repurposing" content. If done thoughtfully, it can be a useful way to draw readers to content that they may have otherwise overlooked.

This re-reporting is less effective, however, when the tweeting reporter adds his or her own 'take' on the story. Not so much to editorialize, but to add a snappier 140-character headline to snag a few more readers.

Thus, a recent story about a developer who'd run into financial hurdles while trying to develop an upscale restaurant amid a street of bakeries, sub shops, Chinese takeout place, and a guitar store was viewed as a "swanky" neighborhood. His son had sold a popular gaming website for millions of dollars, a few years ago; the re-reporter on Twitter said the developer owned that gaming site.

Wrong. And wrong.

• Did the developer have financial issues? Yes. That was the accurate part of the story.
  
• Did the developer own the gaming website? Nope.
  
• Was the neighborhood in question a "swanky" area? Judgment call. In my opinion, one upscale steakhouse amid delis and OTB parlors isn't swanky.
  

My issue: if the re-reporter had submitted this to his or her news editor, that editor would have asked the questions I've placed in bullets, above. Great copy editors challenge assumptions. They insist on facts, and frequently overrule perceptions that can't be substantiated. Swanky leaps to mind.

Twitter has no copy editors. No one to challenge the veracity of news reporters who re-post material they didn't originate.

As a former newspaper reporter, I know how tough it is to file accurate stories, day after day, on deadline. That's why newspapers employ copy editors: to ensure the reporter's story has its roots in fact, not assumption.

Twitter has no copy editors. There's no one to hold writers accountable for repurposed, re-headlined stories they didn't originate.

So before evolving into a Twitter-based news service, re-reporters must make certain their breezy 140-character tweeted headlines are based in fact.

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Kodak's travails provide multiple lessons

Thought for today:

Kodak's travails provide multiple lessons: You’ve undoubtedly seen the news that legendary companyKodak is in se...

This guy nails it. If the business model is built around a high-margin consumable -- disposable diapers, razor blades, or even gasoline -- reconfiguring the business to be self-sustaining from low-margin products is a pretty big challenge. Witness the newspaper business, where the high-margin consumable is printed advertising, which has all but evaporated to the web.

Many of the same media outlets doing Monday-morning quaterbacking on the decline of Kodak are much closer to the same sort of drop-off. Let's see them create a sustainable business model around a digitally delivered product.

When you see these initials, RUN

This is how FTI Consulting describes itself (italics are mine):

The Strategic Communications practice of FTI Consulting is one of the world’s most highly regarded communications consultancies. With more than 20 years of experience advising management teams in critical situations, the Strategic Communications practice supports clients in protecting and enhancing their reputation in the capital markets, society and the political environment. Services of the Strategic Communications practice are financial communications, corporate communications and public affairs, with specialty offerings that include strategy consulting, research, creative engagement, crisis and issues management, and change communications. The Strategic Communications practice of FTI Consulting is an established market leader in M&A communications and has been for many years.

FTI Consulting, Inc. is a global business advisory firm dedicated to helping organizations protect and enhance enterprise value in an increasingly complex legal, regulatory and economic environment. With more than 3,700 professionals located in most major business centers in the world, we work closely with clients every day to anticipate, illuminate, and overcome complex business challenges in areas such as investigations, litigation, mergers and acquisitions, regulatory issues, reputation management and restructuring. Our workforce includes numerous PhDs, MBAs, CPAs, CFEs, JDs, and technologists with expertise across a broad range of industries including automotive, chemicals, construction solutions, communications, media and entertainment, electricity, financial services, insurance, retail, healthcare, energy, real estate and life sciences. Since our founding in 1982, clients have turned to us for high-stakes issues that require specialized expertise.

= = =

Translation: these are the people who parachute into your workplace and orchestrate the non-message-rich communication when the company's reorganizing or filing for bankruptcy. "Business challenges" is the red-flag word.

Be forewarned. FTI = RUN.

New in Wegmans: your ankles

Say "Wegmans" to anyone who's spent more than three days in Rochester. You'll see their eyes glaze over.

For many people, Wegmans is the Valhalla of supermarkets. Better than Whole Foods. Better than Target. Almost the Nordstroms of groceries. Former Rochesterians who move to bigger cities pine for Wegmans. You can send them a Wegmans reusable shopping bag as a gift, and they tear up.

I never dispute Wegmans' greatness. I love them. Sure, Wegmans can be pricey at times, but they outshine most competitors for two simple reasons:

• Wegmans gives a ton of philanthropic support to the communities in which its stores and workers live. Including scholarship money for young cashiers.
• Wegmans is open ALL THE TIME.
  
• (Third Reason: my feet never stick to the floor in a Wegmans market. Ever.)

So I'm cruising the Eastway Wegmans last night for some essentials: nonfat vanilla yogurt, oat bran snacks, skim milk, etc. About $40 worth of groceries. I pull into the checkout lane, and suddenly notice my feet. They are glowing. I can see I have a shoelace about to go AWOL.

I drop coins all the time, and think this is a handy convenience. I ask the cheerful cashier, "What's with the lights at my feet?"

Wegmans has installed illuminated ankle-level cameras at every checkout line, she tells me. "It's so we can see what's in the bottom rack of your shopping cart."

Really? Shopping carts are transparent, gridded contraptions: basically, upended cages on wheels. You can see through the baskets to the lower deck, where you'd put big sacks of dog food or cartons of soft drinks.

So, my friends, the jig is up. If you're smuggling Slim-Fast or meatloaf out in your socks, Wegmans' ankle-cameras will nab you. Or they'll report that you need new polish on your toenails.

My first shot

Something triggered (pun becomes apparent) this recollection:

In the summer of 1978, I worked at a small, 1000-watt AM radio station in northwestern PA. College internship, low pay, lodged alone in a vacant dorm room at the University of Pittsburgh campus. Worked most nights, rebroadcasting KDKA's signal for Pittsburgh Pirates games. Which could barely be heard, 20 miles away.

On a rare night off, I met a friend for dinner in Bradford's best restaurant. I'm actually wearing a jacket and tie. After I dropped her off, I roamed around town in my little Mazda, looking for something. Or someone. I was restless.

Coming up one street, I spied an overly blond young woman, dressed in glitter and gold for a night out. (It's 1978, remember.) She's crying by the roadside. So I stop to ask if she needs help.

"My boyfriend and I had a fight," she says. "Can I get a ride home, please?"

Off we go. She's giving turn-by-turn directions to a part of town I don't know well. I notice a pair of bright fog lights in my rear-view mirror, and I think: "It's not a foggy night. Why is he using those lights?"

We reach a neighborhood where the residential streets climb up the hills. I glance in the rearview; Mr. Fog Lights is gone. But I think to ask: "Does your boyfriend own a pickup truck?"

"Yep," she says. "A big one. Goes off-road."

"Fog lamps?"

"Oh, yeah."

She points out her apartment house, I swing the car around, so she can get out on the right. I glance at the rearview again; no sign of the truck. She looks at me, dabbing away the last of her tears.

"Do you believe in Jesus?"

I shook my head. "'Fraid not."

She sighed. "Well, thank you so much. I know god loves you."

And she scurries away into her apartment. It's so quiet I can hear the bolt snick into place as she locks the door.

I shift into first, and suddenly see a trail of sparks flash by my driver's door, down the street. At first I think: "Bottle rocket?"

It happens again, but this time, I hear the pop.

Mr. Fog Lights is discharging a gun. In my direction.

God had better love me right now. The little Mazda leapt into the street, with me deliberately swerving to avoid additional small-arms fire. I scan for the truck's lights, desperately trying to find the street that will lead me back to where I think the Bradford police station sits. For some reason, I decide to try to lose the trucker first, threading my way through the night streets in search of a police-protected doughnut shop.

By the time I reached police headquarters, there was no sign of Mr. Fog Lights in my mirror, or anywhere nearby.

Somewhere out there, a disgruntled and perhaps inebriated boyfriend with his steroid-powered truck was searching for my little Mazda. The cops didn't believe me. And since I didn't actually see the truck or its driver, they had very little in the way of motivation to go out searching for the carbureted gunman.

Jesus, in fact, may have loved me that night. But there's only room for one good Samaritan in the Bible.

Read on. Please.

Two weeks ago, I sent a note to a colleague, asking for their response to an external inquiry. I included the sender's questions.

Today, I met with the colleague, who saw the questions only when I handed over a print-out of the note I'd originally sent. The colleague never read far enough in my original email to see the questions.

Sure, everyone's busy. But reading the complete note would have avoided a two-week delay in getting a response.

End of rant.