Time to rip another page off the calendar. I have a very busy August ahead of me, for several reasons.
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
The End of July
Time to rip another page off the calendar. I have a very busy August ahead of me, for several reasons.
Dr. Cousin is getting married at the end of the month, which means a trip back to Anytown. I'm sufficiently recovered from my last trip to be excited about going back again. Dr. Cousin is preceded in marriage by his brother, the Cousin Who's On TV; his wedding in June 2000 was probably the most fun event I've attended in the last five years. I doubt this event will be quite as raucous, but I will be hanging out with some of the world's best people. Am looking forward to that.
This has nothing to do with impending August, but I'll share it anyway: The Freelance Gig has been named one of The Week's Best Web Sites by a TV station in Anytown. The cynic in me knows that the Mother-In-Law, who is the eye and the heart behind the photos on the site, has a connection of some sort at this particular station, so it's not like they just stumbled across the site and said, "Hey, that's cool." The giddy first-time web designer in me says, "Hey, if it looked like shit, they wouldn't have posted it." I'll allow Giddy a victory over Cynical this time. That doesn't happen often.
And, last but not least: Many, many elements, most of them financial, still have to fall into place, but we are almost ready to announce a major lifestyle change. If this happens, the Three-Year Itch gets scratched, and it doesn't even involve me quitting my job. I'll share more details as the elements fall into place. Gives you something to look forward to in August.
Time to rip another page off the calendar. I have a very busy August ahead of me, for several reasons.
Saturday, July 27, 2002
The brutally sad existence of journalists
I stumbled across a web site devoted to giving journalists the chance to enlighten people about their places of employment. Ostensibly, this site would be a key stop for a job-seeker to find out what it's really like when they walk into the office wearing something other than job-interview clothes. In reality, it's a site where people can post often whiny and sometimes vicious diatribes about their co-workers. It's a follow-up to a site that was wildly popular in about 1998, but shut down abruptly after one particular thread got incredibly personal and, as I recall, named names.
The general content of a posting to one of these sites goes something like this:
"God, the place I work is (a hellhole/like a concentration camp/the worst ever). The pay is (lousy/barely enough to feed me/I'm paying them to let me work there.) My boss is (an imbecile/mentally ill/not smart enough to compose a coherent sentence.) I have no idea how he/she got promoted, unless (he kissed his boss's ass/there was a corporate conspiracy/he had naked pictures of the publisher.) The only people who get promoted are (complete idiots/ass-kissers/no-talent hacks) while a future Pulitzer winner such as myself has to (toil in obscurity/write 8-inch stories/write corrections when I make mistakes). The corporation that owns my paper has no respect for journalism and only cares about profits, which is why they (canceled the Christmas party/only gave me a 2 percent raise/fired me last week.) They never let us (write long stories/surf the Web for porn at work/fudge our expense reports). I hate it and I'm (leaving at the first opportunity/working on my resume instead of writing a story this very minute/going to come to work with an AR-15.)"
I can understand the tendency of a reporter or a copy editor, particularly, to feel the need to vent. And God knows I'm entertained by reading it. Occasionally, however, I'll note the unmistakable stench of a thin-skinned manager attempting to post a response. That's stupid, and naive. If your employee really cared about what you thought, he or she would have brought the problem to you in the first place and wouldn't have felt the need to broadcast it to the world. A reporter who feels the need to bitch about work on the web is annoying (albeit, again, entertaining.) An editor who feels the need to respond on such a board ... well, your reporter is probably right about you being a pathetic idiot.
(And no, to the best of my knowledge, I haven't been the subject of a rant. Yet.)
It's no secret that I've been less than satisfied with my job every once in a while. But sheesh, I've never had so much time on my hands that I could come up with enough vitriol -- nor have I ever had enough of an ego to believe the entire world would give a shit about my plight.
In defense of journalists: A satisfied journalist is a bad journalist. Good reporters question everything. Some of the best, alas, can't turn off that tendency when they log off for the day and go home. The very best, however, channel that energy into finding more stories and more questions to ask. They don't waste keystrokes on rant boards.
I stumbled across a web site devoted to giving journalists the chance to enlighten people about their places of employment. Ostensibly, this site would be a key stop for a job-seeker to find out what it's really like when they walk into the office wearing something other than job-interview clothes. In reality, it's a site where people can post often whiny and sometimes vicious diatribes about their co-workers. It's a follow-up to a site that was wildly popular in about 1998, but shut down abruptly after one particular thread got incredibly personal and, as I recall, named names.
The general content of a posting to one of these sites goes something like this:
"God, the place I work is (a hellhole/like a concentration camp/the worst ever). The pay is (lousy/barely enough to feed me/I'm paying them to let me work there.) My boss is (an imbecile/mentally ill/not smart enough to compose a coherent sentence.) I have no idea how he/she got promoted, unless (he kissed his boss's ass/there was a corporate conspiracy/he had naked pictures of the publisher.) The only people who get promoted are (complete idiots/ass-kissers/no-talent hacks) while a future Pulitzer winner such as myself has to (toil in obscurity/write 8-inch stories/write corrections when I make mistakes). The corporation that owns my paper has no respect for journalism and only cares about profits, which is why they (canceled the Christmas party/only gave me a 2 percent raise/fired me last week.) They never let us (write long stories/surf the Web for porn at work/fudge our expense reports). I hate it and I'm (leaving at the first opportunity/working on my resume instead of writing a story this very minute/going to come to work with an AR-15.)"
I can understand the tendency of a reporter or a copy editor, particularly, to feel the need to vent. And God knows I'm entertained by reading it. Occasionally, however, I'll note the unmistakable stench of a thin-skinned manager attempting to post a response. That's stupid, and naive. If your employee really cared about what you thought, he or she would have brought the problem to you in the first place and wouldn't have felt the need to broadcast it to the world. A reporter who feels the need to bitch about work on the web is annoying (albeit, again, entertaining.) An editor who feels the need to respond on such a board ... well, your reporter is probably right about you being a pathetic idiot.
(And no, to the best of my knowledge, I haven't been the subject of a rant. Yet.)
It's no secret that I've been less than satisfied with my job every once in a while. But sheesh, I've never had so much time on my hands that I could come up with enough vitriol -- nor have I ever had enough of an ego to believe the entire world would give a shit about my plight.
In defense of journalists: A satisfied journalist is a bad journalist. Good reporters question everything. Some of the best, alas, can't turn off that tendency when they log off for the day and go home. The very best, however, channel that energy into finding more stories and more questions to ask. They don't waste keystrokes on rant boards.
Friday, July 26, 2002
Holy freaking shit, it's hot
It's not just hot; it's get-under-your-skin-and-fry-your-internal-organs hot.
It's not news, of course, that it gets really hot in Texas. But the heat in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is a different kind of heat. It sears you on its way down from the sky; then it bounces off the concrete and strafes your face. A little relief breeze may blow, but it's blocked by a building. The sun shines off the back window of the car in front of you, stealing your vision as you move 7 mph down the freeway. Every vent on your dashboard is trained on your face as you lay off Norm A/C and replace him with the supposedly more powerful Max A/C. The temperature gauge on your dashboard creeps to just left of the "H;" you hope to God you can shake the traffic and get the car up to speed in time to blow some relief in through the grille before everything under your hood vanishes in a cloud of steam. It's too hot to drink beer at the ballgame; the Beer Man is abandoned in favor of the Bottled Water Man. You set the thermostat at 75 degrees so the air conditioner can run all day just to keep the house at 79. If the air conditioner breaks down, you'll pay the man anything to fix it. You'll give him your house, your car, $1,340 and buy him dinner for a year if he'll just fix it now. If the air conditioner breaks down on Sunday, be prepared to throw in your spouse and one of your kids.
We learned about summer in Texas quickly. Our first full summer here was the summer of 2000; it was the hottest summer in 20 years. It didn't rain for almost 90 days. The Sunday before Labor Day, the temperature tied the all-time record high of 111. The Wife was eight months pregnant at the time. I can imagine nothing less pleasant.
Air quality in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is bad. "Ozone alerts" are issued; if a "Level Orange" or "Level Red" alert is issued, we're asked to leave our cars at home and ride public transportation or carpool. Yeah, right. Ozone alerts are largely ignored. We'd much rather look through our tinted glass during the traffic jam and wonder if the sky is always that funny brown color.
In keeping with the Texan tendency to do everything to excess, we don't just air-condition our public buildings. We turn them into walk-in refrigerators. You come in from outside, where it's 101, and you're immediately blasted with a 51-degree dose of Freon. It's a wonder thunderstorms don't form at the entrance to the mall.
I'd continue, but my brain is melted. Must find another bottle of water.
It's not just hot; it's get-under-your-skin-and-fry-your-internal-organs hot.
It's not news, of course, that it gets really hot in Texas. But the heat in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is a different kind of heat. It sears you on its way down from the sky; then it bounces off the concrete and strafes your face. A little relief breeze may blow, but it's blocked by a building. The sun shines off the back window of the car in front of you, stealing your vision as you move 7 mph down the freeway. Every vent on your dashboard is trained on your face as you lay off Norm A/C and replace him with the supposedly more powerful Max A/C. The temperature gauge on your dashboard creeps to just left of the "H;" you hope to God you can shake the traffic and get the car up to speed in time to blow some relief in through the grille before everything under your hood vanishes in a cloud of steam. It's too hot to drink beer at the ballgame; the Beer Man is abandoned in favor of the Bottled Water Man. You set the thermostat at 75 degrees so the air conditioner can run all day just to keep the house at 79. If the air conditioner breaks down, you'll pay the man anything to fix it. You'll give him your house, your car, $1,340 and buy him dinner for a year if he'll just fix it now. If the air conditioner breaks down on Sunday, be prepared to throw in your spouse and one of your kids.
We learned about summer in Texas quickly. Our first full summer here was the summer of 2000; it was the hottest summer in 20 years. It didn't rain for almost 90 days. The Sunday before Labor Day, the temperature tied the all-time record high of 111. The Wife was eight months pregnant at the time. I can imagine nothing less pleasant.
Air quality in the Very Large Metropolitan Area is bad. "Ozone alerts" are issued; if a "Level Orange" or "Level Red" alert is issued, we're asked to leave our cars at home and ride public transportation or carpool. Yeah, right. Ozone alerts are largely ignored. We'd much rather look through our tinted glass during the traffic jam and wonder if the sky is always that funny brown color.
In keeping with the Texan tendency to do everything to excess, we don't just air-condition our public buildings. We turn them into walk-in refrigerators. You come in from outside, where it's 101, and you're immediately blasted with a 51-degree dose of Freon. It's a wonder thunderstorms don't form at the entrance to the mall.
I'd continue, but my brain is melted. Must find another bottle of water.
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
Sunday, July 21, 2002
Terminal insomnia
The little numbers down in the lower right-hand corner of my screen mock me. "1:07 AM." One-oh-seven AM. At least one child will be awake in less than six hours, which means I will be awake again in less than six hours. But, instead of sleeping, I sit here. I am in total darkness, except for this screen and the myriad LEDs shining from my computer and its various peripherals.
I'm not even sure what's keeping me awake, save the two post-4 p.m. Dr Peppers. I'm even less sure where this little trip is going to take us. But at least in here, I'm not keeping The Wife awake with my uncertainty. One of us will be reasonably well-rested in less than six hours.
In years past, I would have gotten in the car (at the time, actually, it was a truck), turned on the high-beams and snapped in a cassette tape. I would have had no particular place to go. I would have started by cruising the streets of Anytown past the houses of people I knew, seeing if by chance a party had run late or some such. Failing that, I would have headed past a city limit sign and burned off some fuel and some time. Maybe my fishing pole would have been in the back of the truck; maybe I would have gone to a moonlit lake near town and tried to catch some fish. Maybe I would have had a spiral notebook in the floor or behind the seat of the truck; maybe I would have sat at that moonlit lake, doing what I'm doing now. Maybe I would have just kept driving, winding up in Oklahoma or Arkansas or Kansas. (Don't worry; I lived in the southwestern corner of Missouri. None of those places was that far away.) I would have made it home around sunrise, just in time to fall asleep for five or six hours, getting some rest in time to be at work at 4 p.m.
To say I am a night person would be a dramatic understatement. I lived an unnatural existence for a very long time. In college, I dated a girl who went to another school, three hours away from Anytown. My weekends were often spent as follows: Go to work at 4 p.m. on Friday, cover a ballgame, write my story, and leave for Columbia around 1 a.m. She'd meet me outside her dorm at 4. If we didn't get hassled by an RA (and we never did; I'm pretty sure the RA was a myth), we'd go back in and fall back asleep until about 11 a.m. Get lunch, talk, do whatever. I'd leave at 4 p.m. or so and be back at work at 7 p.m. Saturday night, and work until 1 a.m. or so, when I'd meet my friends out somewhere. That would keep me up until 5 or 6.
Then I got married to a night person. I worked nights, she worked nights, and it was not uncommon for us to wake up just in time to get to work at 4 p.m. You can imagine what an adjustment it was for us when we had a kid. Babies are not night people nor day people. They sleep when they want, and most usually, they don't sleep when you really wish they would.
I had a day job for 11 months in 1993 and hated it. I've had this most recent day job for a year and a half, and my body clock still hasn't really adjusted. I sleep now because my body forces me to. I am a person who needs nine or 10 hours of sleep a night. I get five or six most nights. I'm on my way to getting less than that tonight.
There are those numbers again. "1:24 AM." Mocking me. Wonder if the numbers can tell me which kid is going to wake up in less than six hours?
The little numbers down in the lower right-hand corner of my screen mock me. "1:07 AM." One-oh-seven AM. At least one child will be awake in less than six hours, which means I will be awake again in less than six hours. But, instead of sleeping, I sit here. I am in total darkness, except for this screen and the myriad LEDs shining from my computer and its various peripherals.
I'm not even sure what's keeping me awake, save the two post-4 p.m. Dr Peppers. I'm even less sure where this little trip is going to take us. But at least in here, I'm not keeping The Wife awake with my uncertainty. One of us will be reasonably well-rested in less than six hours.
In years past, I would have gotten in the car (at the time, actually, it was a truck), turned on the high-beams and snapped in a cassette tape. I would have had no particular place to go. I would have started by cruising the streets of Anytown past the houses of people I knew, seeing if by chance a party had run late or some such. Failing that, I would have headed past a city limit sign and burned off some fuel and some time. Maybe my fishing pole would have been in the back of the truck; maybe I would have gone to a moonlit lake near town and tried to catch some fish. Maybe I would have had a spiral notebook in the floor or behind the seat of the truck; maybe I would have sat at that moonlit lake, doing what I'm doing now. Maybe I would have just kept driving, winding up in Oklahoma or Arkansas or Kansas. (Don't worry; I lived in the southwestern corner of Missouri. None of those places was that far away.) I would have made it home around sunrise, just in time to fall asleep for five or six hours, getting some rest in time to be at work at 4 p.m.
To say I am a night person would be a dramatic understatement. I lived an unnatural existence for a very long time. In college, I dated a girl who went to another school, three hours away from Anytown. My weekends were often spent as follows: Go to work at 4 p.m. on Friday, cover a ballgame, write my story, and leave for Columbia around 1 a.m. She'd meet me outside her dorm at 4. If we didn't get hassled by an RA (and we never did; I'm pretty sure the RA was a myth), we'd go back in and fall back asleep until about 11 a.m. Get lunch, talk, do whatever. I'd leave at 4 p.m. or so and be back at work at 7 p.m. Saturday night, and work until 1 a.m. or so, when I'd meet my friends out somewhere. That would keep me up until 5 or 6.
Then I got married to a night person. I worked nights, she worked nights, and it was not uncommon for us to wake up just in time to get to work at 4 p.m. You can imagine what an adjustment it was for us when we had a kid. Babies are not night people nor day people. They sleep when they want, and most usually, they don't sleep when you really wish they would.
I had a day job for 11 months in 1993 and hated it. I've had this most recent day job for a year and a half, and my body clock still hasn't really adjusted. I sleep now because my body forces me to. I am a person who needs nine or 10 hours of sleep a night. I get five or six most nights. I'm on my way to getting less than that tonight.
There are those numbers again. "1:24 AM." Mocking me. Wonder if the numbers can tell me which kid is going to wake up in less than six hours?
Sunday, July 14, 2002
Saturday, July 13, 2002
Things that don't matter
I once heard of a reporter who was sent to the local house of ill repute to get the, um, inside story about what was really going on in there. The employees were suspicious and refused him service. And, yes, he became known as "The Guy Who Couldn't Get Laid in a Whorehouse With Someone Else's Money."
Great domain name: mamasaidgetajob.com. Mama perhaps should have added, "But not in the telecom industry."
Baseball. Go on strike. I don't give a flying fuck. I was worried for a bit that I had been an enabler for major-league baseball, having attended several games since the Strike to End All Strikes in '94, then I realized that I had not paid for admission to any of those games. The last game for which I purchased a ticket with my own money: Dodgers at Reds, Aug. 11, 1994. The last game before the Big Strike. A guy named Flea and I bought $3.50 tickets for the "Top Six" -- the upper reaches of Riverfront Stadium -- and made our way down, eventually winding up behind home plate. We heckled Brett Butler mercilessly. I'm not sure why. Baseball has received my interest as a sports fan since then, but not a penny of my money. I feel a little bit better.
I'm ditching the public-transportation experiment. Turns out I really don't have time to save the planet. On a bad day, my Very Long Commute runs 50 minutes, maybe an hour. Taking the train, I guarantee myself a trip of an hour and 20 minutes, and that's if my arrival at the train station coincides with that of the train. The next expansion brings the northern terminus of the line to within 12 miles of my house, instead of 18. Maybe I'll try again then.
Monday, July 08, 2002
Yeah, all right, I'll help save the planet
Thanks to me, there's one fewer hydrocarbon-belching vehicle on the streets of the Big City. I like to drive. I don't really like being around strangers much. But I'm going completely against my character. I'm experimenting with public transportation.
The Big City's light-rail system has expanded; its northern terminus is now 17 miles from my house. This means I drive 17 miles to a train station, park my car in Space No. 1,099 in an 1,100-space lot, walk 18 miles from my car to the train platform, and ride a sleek light-rail train the remaining 18 miles to work. It saves me no time; it's not really a lot more comfortable; I do get some reading done, but not much. What's in it for me, exactly? Well, I'm putting 34 miles a day on my car rather than 70, saving a little bit of gas and a little bit of wear and tear. And at some point soon, a large construction project on my route to work is going to get really ugly, so I'll be avoiding that.
Texans like their cars. The longhorn Caddy has been replaced by the big-ass Suburban, but the point is still the same. Texans like to drive, they prefer to drive alone, and the fewer miles to the gallon they get, the better. For many years, Texas' economy was based on people like themselves consuming as much oil as humanly possible. It's almost a Texan's duty to drive the biggest, longest, gas-suckingest vehicle he or she can find.
My figuring is that by riding the train, I can stretch the nation's petroleum reserves by about 10 minutes, and I'm contributing ever-so-slightly less to the area's pollution problem. By myself, that's not much. My Oldsmobile Alero is relatively new and clean-burning, and if I drive it nicely, I can get 30 miles per gallon on the freeway. But at least I feel like I'm doing something.
Thanks to me, there's one fewer hydrocarbon-belching vehicle on the streets of the Big City. I like to drive. I don't really like being around strangers much. But I'm going completely against my character. I'm experimenting with public transportation.
The Big City's light-rail system has expanded; its northern terminus is now 17 miles from my house. This means I drive 17 miles to a train station, park my car in Space No. 1,099 in an 1,100-space lot, walk 18 miles from my car to the train platform, and ride a sleek light-rail train the remaining 18 miles to work. It saves me no time; it's not really a lot more comfortable; I do get some reading done, but not much. What's in it for me, exactly? Well, I'm putting 34 miles a day on my car rather than 70, saving a little bit of gas and a little bit of wear and tear. And at some point soon, a large construction project on my route to work is going to get really ugly, so I'll be avoiding that.
Texans like their cars. The longhorn Caddy has been replaced by the big-ass Suburban, but the point is still the same. Texans like to drive, they prefer to drive alone, and the fewer miles to the gallon they get, the better. For many years, Texas' economy was based on people like themselves consuming as much oil as humanly possible. It's almost a Texan's duty to drive the biggest, longest, gas-suckingest vehicle he or she can find.
My figuring is that by riding the train, I can stretch the nation's petroleum reserves by about 10 minutes, and I'm contributing ever-so-slightly less to the area's pollution problem. By myself, that's not much. My Oldsmobile Alero is relatively new and clean-burning, and if I drive it nicely, I can get 30 miles per gallon on the freeway. But at least I feel like I'm doing something.
Saturday, July 06, 2002
You say it's your birthday ...
For most people, the Fourth of July means unbearable heat, overcooked burgers and dogs, and fireworks either launched illicitly within the city limits or seen from a distance at a municipal show. In my house, it means all that, and birthdays. The Old Daughter on the Fourth, mine on the day after. She's 8. I'm a whole lot older.
My perspective on age is skewed in part by the fact that I watched sports for a living for such a long time. I became conditioned to believing that 34 is old, very old. Professional athletes who are 34 are In the Twilight of Their Careers, to use one particular overused lyrical sportswriter phrase. My perspective on age is also skewed in part by the fact that when my mom was 34, I was in college. So I'm not really sure what to think. Some days, I feel very, very old. Some days, not so much.
For many years, I was the youngest in any group of people. Friends, co-workers, whatever; I was always the youngest. Now, I work with people who were born in the mid-'70s. I will likely have a supervisor who is younger than me some day soon. I wonder how I'll handle that; I always wondered how the people I supervised in past jobs handled it. I don't even know why it matters to me.
I'm 34 tomorrow. I'm only 34. I can still say that. But for some reason, I can't shake this feeling that I'm running out of time.
For most people, the Fourth of July means unbearable heat, overcooked burgers and dogs, and fireworks either launched illicitly within the city limits or seen from a distance at a municipal show. In my house, it means all that, and birthdays. The Old Daughter on the Fourth, mine on the day after. She's 8. I'm a whole lot older.
My perspective on age is skewed in part by the fact that I watched sports for a living for such a long time. I became conditioned to believing that 34 is old, very old. Professional athletes who are 34 are In the Twilight of Their Careers, to use one particular overused lyrical sportswriter phrase. My perspective on age is also skewed in part by the fact that when my mom was 34, I was in college. So I'm not really sure what to think. Some days, I feel very, very old. Some days, not so much.
For many years, I was the youngest in any group of people. Friends, co-workers, whatever; I was always the youngest. Now, I work with people who were born in the mid-'70s. I will likely have a supervisor who is younger than me some day soon. I wonder how I'll handle that; I always wondered how the people I supervised in past jobs handled it. I don't even know why it matters to me.
I'm 34 tomorrow. I'm only 34. I can still say that. But for some reason, I can't shake this feeling that I'm running out of time.
Monday, July 01, 2002
On special assignment
I'm off to help determine the Future of Journalism. You'll find me on another floor from my normal desk, hidden from the daily grind, tucked away with a select group trying to figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that no longer has any use for them.
Of course, this select group consists of no writers, photographers or artists. Just designers, with the occasional Upper Manager popping his head in to check our progress. It's all up to us, apparently. I've been in these groups before. The usual assignment: Take the same old crap we've always been producing and make it look better. I like that strategy. Progress by Deception. They always say, "Oh, yeah, we'll write more interesting stories and take better pictures, too, at some point, maybe. Until then, could you make what we're doing now look better? You know, to appeal to the Young People." I'm glad this strategy exists; it helps me keep a job and it gets me out of the daily grind every couple of years.
But the progress we've made so far isn't exactly measurable. It gets frustrating to propose changes year after year to an industry that is fundamentally opposed to change. The last three newspapers for which I've worked have recently won Pulitzer Prizes; by recently I mean in the last 10 years. I'm pretty sure it's the worst thing that can happen to most newspapers. "Change what? Why do we need to change? For God's sake, we just won a f---ing Pulitzer in '93!" Oh, OK. I'll be sure to tell that to the people in the 'burbs in Ohio or Missouri or Texas who are having The New York Times thrown at their doorstep instead of the hometown rag.
The strategy behind putting designers at the helm of new product development is actually sound. Unlike writers, photographers and artists, we really have no turf to defend. We take what's given to us and arrange it in the way we think will get a reader's attention. However, our responsibility pretty much ends with the "getting readers' attention" part. Our work is for naught if the story or the photo or graphic doesn't hold the reader's attention -- or, maybe, cause said reader to part with his or her 50 cents.
Most of the people I know read newspapers. Of course, most of the people I know work for some media outlet. They kind of have to read newspapers. Most of the people I know who aren't paid to read newspapers don't. The range of people I know corresponds roughly with the 25-34 demographic, a group which I am perilously close to leaving behind. Our bean-counters need to show advertisers our product appeals to the 25-34 demographic, because people in that age group 1/spend money and 2/are less likely to die within the next 10 years. Our core readership, alas, falls into an age group more closely resembling 55-and-older, and they are less inclined to do (1) and a lot closer to (2).
So, the challenge goes something like this: Figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that has no use for them, without alienating all the older people who actually do read newspapers religiously because, well, that's what they've always done with their mornings. And do it by July 24.
All cynicism aside, there are some good ideas on our table. We'll see if we can put any of them into action before I'm ready to give up on the whole thing.
(Editor's note: Your opinion really does matter on this one. Do you read a newspaper with any regularity? Why the hell not? I promise not to hold it against you if you don't. I am genuinely curious. Help save my job and tell me what we need to do better.)
I'm off to help determine the Future of Journalism. You'll find me on another floor from my normal desk, hidden from the daily grind, tucked away with a select group trying to figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that no longer has any use for them.
Of course, this select group consists of no writers, photographers or artists. Just designers, with the occasional Upper Manager popping his head in to check our progress. It's all up to us, apparently. I've been in these groups before. The usual assignment: Take the same old crap we've always been producing and make it look better. I like that strategy. Progress by Deception. They always say, "Oh, yeah, we'll write more interesting stories and take better pictures, too, at some point, maybe. Until then, could you make what we're doing now look better? You know, to appeal to the Young People." I'm glad this strategy exists; it helps me keep a job and it gets me out of the daily grind every couple of years.
But the progress we've made so far isn't exactly measurable. It gets frustrating to propose changes year after year to an industry that is fundamentally opposed to change. The last three newspapers for which I've worked have recently won Pulitzer Prizes; by recently I mean in the last 10 years. I'm pretty sure it's the worst thing that can happen to most newspapers. "Change what? Why do we need to change? For God's sake, we just won a f---ing Pulitzer in '93!" Oh, OK. I'll be sure to tell that to the people in the 'burbs in Ohio or Missouri or Texas who are having The New York Times thrown at their doorstep instead of the hometown rag.
The strategy behind putting designers at the helm of new product development is actually sound. Unlike writers, photographers and artists, we really have no turf to defend. We take what's given to us and arrange it in the way we think will get a reader's attention. However, our responsibility pretty much ends with the "getting readers' attention" part. Our work is for naught if the story or the photo or graphic doesn't hold the reader's attention -- or, maybe, cause said reader to part with his or her 50 cents.
Most of the people I know read newspapers. Of course, most of the people I know work for some media outlet. They kind of have to read newspapers. Most of the people I know who aren't paid to read newspapers don't. The range of people I know corresponds roughly with the 25-34 demographic, a group which I am perilously close to leaving behind. Our bean-counters need to show advertisers our product appeals to the 25-34 demographic, because people in that age group 1/spend money and 2/are less likely to die within the next 10 years. Our core readership, alas, falls into an age group more closely resembling 55-and-older, and they are less inclined to do (1) and a lot closer to (2).
So, the challenge goes something like this: Figure out how to make newspapers relevant to an entire generation that has no use for them, without alienating all the older people who actually do read newspapers religiously because, well, that's what they've always done with their mornings. And do it by July 24.
All cynicism aside, there are some good ideas on our table. We'll see if we can put any of them into action before I'm ready to give up on the whole thing.
(Editor's note: Your opinion really does matter on this one. Do you read a newspaper with any regularity? Why the hell not? I promise not to hold it against you if you don't. I am genuinely curious. Help save my job and tell me what we need to do better.)