Here's where I've been. States in which I've been on the ground at some point in my life are in red. Wonder what I have against the Virginias?
create your own
Saturday, January 31, 2004
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
SPECIAL REPORT
Wonder what's behind this door?
On Feb. 4, 1986, I entered a newsroom for the first time as a professional journalist.
I was a “professional journalist” in my own mind, at least. In reality, I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, hired for a very clerical position in the sports department of the Anytown Daily Bugle. My stated duties were to answer phones in the sports department, transcribe scores, take information from callers and do whatever the full-timers wanted me to do.
But the management had heard me express interest in being a writer, so they decided to test me with an assignment during that first week. My first bylined story appeared on Sunday, Feb. 9, 1986. I became one of the full-timers a year and a half later. From there I moved on to experience every aspect of the newsgathering process, and used some very latent artistic skill to settle into a niche as a page designer who had a knack for making the computer do whatever I wanted it to do.
I’ve done a lot of different things as a “professional journalist.” I’ve worked at four different newspapers; from Anytown to Cincinnati to the Edge to the Very Large Metropolitan Area, back to the Edge. I’ve written stories, edited copy, designed pages, drawn graphics, managed projects, supervised people and even took photos for a story a couple of times. I’ve learned a lot, won a few minor awards and the respect of the people with whom I’ve worked. I’ve made a good deal of money, more than many people who do this job.
Best of all, I’ve done exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And, from Feb. 4, 1986, to where I sit right now, I always said that as soon as it felt like “work,” I’d quit and go do something else.
Easier said than done, of course. In 1988, when I was given a full-time job and could actually call myself a bona fide “professional journalist” without fear of contradiction, I celebrated by quitting college. I knew even then that decision would shackle me to the news business for the rest of my life. I was OK with that 15 years ago. I was OK with that five years ago.
But somewhere along the way, my job has started to feel more and more like work. Tough cookies for me; as a rapidly aging white male, my window of opportunity was about to close on my craned neck.
I didn’t plan it this way, but this is how it will happen:
On Feb. 4, 2004 – 18 years to the day after I dubbed myself a “professional journalist” – I will make good on that boast to “quit when it becomes ‘work.’ ” I’ll walk out of a newsroom as a journalist for the last time.
I’ve accepted a position with a software company that specializes in products for newspapers, magazines and web sites. I’ll be helping to design and implement “Content Management Systems,” basically big databases which hold all the electronic tools necessary to get the news from notebook to print to the web. I’ll be training people to make the computer do whatever they want it to do.
I’ve been making a lot of noise about leaving the newspaper business for the better part of the last two years (see here, and here and, well, here too). The time had long since passed for me to quit bitching and start looking. My first idea was to get serious about finishing my formal education, and that was my original plan for 2004. Then this opportunity came up – the software company was looking for people with newsroom experience to help implement its system in newsrooms. I can bring “newsroom experience” to the table, 18 years’ worth. The rest of it, I figure, I’ll learn as I go.
It’s the first real “job” I’ve ever had. I’ve signed a bunch of non-disclosure agreements and non-compete clauses and other business-y like stuff. I’ll be working with business people and sales people and technogeeks rather than creative people with a nose for the truth.
In past jobs, I’d have to travel for business once, maybe twice a year. In this job, I’ll be traveling to two, maybe three states in a given week. The posting said “50 percent travel;” the people with whom I interviewed say during busy times, it’ll be more like 70 percent. I’ll be a “business traveler.” Right now, I find that kind of cool. In three years, I’m sure I’ll be weary of it.
And yeah, we’ll have to move from the house that we really like in the city we really like. After school’s out in May, we’ll be seeking another house we really like, 90 miles to the west, on the Western Edge.
The money will be good, marginally better than I’m currently earning. The opportunities for advancement will largely be determined by me. Yeah, it’s a volatile industry, but this company seems to be particularly well-positioned to be a player as the new trends in publishing – particularly the electronic variety -- emerge. (Now, that sentence sounded like a Business Person, didn’t it? See how quickly I adapt.) Most of all, I’ll be living my life according to a reasonably set, planned schedule, and won’t be knocked off track by space shuttles falling out of the sky or terrorists blowing stuff up in Morocco or election cycles. I’ll have my holidays and most of my weekends. When I’m not on the road, I’ll be working 8:30-5:30 Monday through Friday, a work schedule that is the envy of all journalists. Even with all the travel, it can be argued I’ll get more time with my family than I get in my current job. Nothing is more important than that.
I’m not going to be terribly far from my basic skill set, and I’m not going to be far from the business in which I’ve spent my entire life. But in some ways, I’ll be a million miles away.
In other words, it’s everything for which I’ve been asking.
Onward, immediately, to the next thing. On Feb. 4, I’ll walk out of the newsroom as a journalist for the last time. I’ll board a plane that night and start our new life on Feb. 5. Not much time for reflection. Certainly no time for sadness or regret.
And, for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the next 18 years of my career.
Wonder what's behind this door?
On Feb. 4, 1986, I entered a newsroom for the first time as a professional journalist.
I was a “professional journalist” in my own mind, at least. In reality, I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, hired for a very clerical position in the sports department of the Anytown Daily Bugle. My stated duties were to answer phones in the sports department, transcribe scores, take information from callers and do whatever the full-timers wanted me to do.
But the management had heard me express interest in being a writer, so they decided to test me with an assignment during that first week. My first bylined story appeared on Sunday, Feb. 9, 1986. I became one of the full-timers a year and a half later. From there I moved on to experience every aspect of the newsgathering process, and used some very latent artistic skill to settle into a niche as a page designer who had a knack for making the computer do whatever I wanted it to do.
I’ve done a lot of different things as a “professional journalist.” I’ve worked at four different newspapers; from Anytown to Cincinnati to the Edge to the Very Large Metropolitan Area, back to the Edge. I’ve written stories, edited copy, designed pages, drawn graphics, managed projects, supervised people and even took photos for a story a couple of times. I’ve learned a lot, won a few minor awards and the respect of the people with whom I’ve worked. I’ve made a good deal of money, more than many people who do this job.
Best of all, I’ve done exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And, from Feb. 4, 1986, to where I sit right now, I always said that as soon as it felt like “work,” I’d quit and go do something else.
Easier said than done, of course. In 1988, when I was given a full-time job and could actually call myself a bona fide “professional journalist” without fear of contradiction, I celebrated by quitting college. I knew even then that decision would shackle me to the news business for the rest of my life. I was OK with that 15 years ago. I was OK with that five years ago.
But somewhere along the way, my job has started to feel more and more like work. Tough cookies for me; as a rapidly aging white male, my window of opportunity was about to close on my craned neck.
I didn’t plan it this way, but this is how it will happen:
On Feb. 4, 2004 – 18 years to the day after I dubbed myself a “professional journalist” – I will make good on that boast to “quit when it becomes ‘work.’ ” I’ll walk out of a newsroom as a journalist for the last time.
I’ve accepted a position with a software company that specializes in products for newspapers, magazines and web sites. I’ll be helping to design and implement “Content Management Systems,” basically big databases which hold all the electronic tools necessary to get the news from notebook to print to the web. I’ll be training people to make the computer do whatever they want it to do.
I’ve been making a lot of noise about leaving the newspaper business for the better part of the last two years (see here, and here and, well, here too). The time had long since passed for me to quit bitching and start looking. My first idea was to get serious about finishing my formal education, and that was my original plan for 2004. Then this opportunity came up – the software company was looking for people with newsroom experience to help implement its system in newsrooms. I can bring “newsroom experience” to the table, 18 years’ worth. The rest of it, I figure, I’ll learn as I go.
It’s the first real “job” I’ve ever had. I’ve signed a bunch of non-disclosure agreements and non-compete clauses and other business-y like stuff. I’ll be working with business people and sales people and technogeeks rather than creative people with a nose for the truth.
In past jobs, I’d have to travel for business once, maybe twice a year. In this job, I’ll be traveling to two, maybe three states in a given week. The posting said “50 percent travel;” the people with whom I interviewed say during busy times, it’ll be more like 70 percent. I’ll be a “business traveler.” Right now, I find that kind of cool. In three years, I’m sure I’ll be weary of it.
And yeah, we’ll have to move from the house that we really like in the city we really like. After school’s out in May, we’ll be seeking another house we really like, 90 miles to the west, on the Western Edge.
The money will be good, marginally better than I’m currently earning. The opportunities for advancement will largely be determined by me. Yeah, it’s a volatile industry, but this company seems to be particularly well-positioned to be a player as the new trends in publishing – particularly the electronic variety -- emerge. (Now, that sentence sounded like a Business Person, didn’t it? See how quickly I adapt.) Most of all, I’ll be living my life according to a reasonably set, planned schedule, and won’t be knocked off track by space shuttles falling out of the sky or terrorists blowing stuff up in Morocco or election cycles. I’ll have my holidays and most of my weekends. When I’m not on the road, I’ll be working 8:30-5:30 Monday through Friday, a work schedule that is the envy of all journalists. Even with all the travel, it can be argued I’ll get more time with my family than I get in my current job. Nothing is more important than that.
I’m not going to be terribly far from my basic skill set, and I’m not going to be far from the business in which I’ve spent my entire life. But in some ways, I’ll be a million miles away.
In other words, it’s everything for which I’ve been asking.
Onward, immediately, to the next thing. On Feb. 4, I’ll walk out of the newsroom as a journalist for the last time. I’ll board a plane that night and start our new life on Feb. 5. Not much time for reflection. Certainly no time for sadness or regret.
And, for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the next 18 years of my career.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Well, duh
In a big red bar across top of my favorite news site's home page:
"BREAKING NEWS: Parts of Patriot Act ruled unconstitutional"
Am searching for the most intellectual way to put this ... searching ... searching ... hey, there it is: "No shit, Sherlock."
It didn't take a constitutional scholar to figure that one out. Here's hoping they keep thinking straight and rule the rest of the damn thing unconstitutional.
In a big red bar across top of my favorite news site's home page:
"BREAKING NEWS: Parts of Patriot Act ruled unconstitutional"
Am searching for the most intellectual way to put this ... searching ... searching ... hey, there it is: "No shit, Sherlock."
It didn't take a constitutional scholar to figure that one out. Here's hoping they keep thinking straight and rule the rest of the damn thing unconstitutional.
Margin of error: Infinite
John Kerry has a slim lead over Howard Dean and John Edwards in advance of the New Hampshire primary. Wait, Kerry and Dean are neck-and-neck, with Edwards a distant third. No, no, check that. Kerry has a 13-point lead over Dean. Who's John Edwards?
You know, we could have avoided that whole mess in Florida in 2000 by simply not having had the election. We should just let Zogby and Gallup and the Anytown Daily Bugle call people up and ask them how they would vote if the election were to be held. Have some pinheaded math geek run some formulas to determine the "margin of error," and then present the results as a fait accompli. So much easier to pass the results off as "news," when the candidates aren't making much news of their own; so much more suited to American's attention spans.
Try this idea: Read about the candidates. You don't even have to read a newspaper, although I'd prefer that you do. You can click around on the Web. Hell, watch TV, if you must. Research the issues. Form your own opinions. Then vote for the candidate that best matches yours.
Yeah, it takes a little bit of effort. But it sure seems to me to make a lot more sense than letting the media and a few polling firms choose your leaders.
John Kerry has a slim lead over Howard Dean and John Edwards in advance of the New Hampshire primary. Wait, Kerry and Dean are neck-and-neck, with Edwards a distant third. No, no, check that. Kerry has a 13-point lead over Dean. Who's John Edwards?
You know, we could have avoided that whole mess in Florida in 2000 by simply not having had the election. We should just let Zogby and Gallup and the Anytown Daily Bugle call people up and ask them how they would vote if the election were to be held. Have some pinheaded math geek run some formulas to determine the "margin of error," and then present the results as a fait accompli. So much easier to pass the results off as "news," when the candidates aren't making much news of their own; so much more suited to American's attention spans.
Try this idea: Read about the candidates. You don't even have to read a newspaper, although I'd prefer that you do. You can click around on the Web. Hell, watch TV, if you must. Research the issues. Form your own opinions. Then vote for the candidate that best matches yours.
Yeah, it takes a little bit of effort. But it sure seems to me to make a lot more sense than letting the media and a few polling firms choose your leaders.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Monday, January 19, 2004
Referral
Go here. Read to the end. And smile, send along good thoughts and prayers, and high-five the person sitting next to you.
Life is good. It really is. And for a bunch of people for whom I care deeply, it's about to get better in ways they can't even imagine.
Go here. Read to the end. And smile, send along good thoughts and prayers, and high-five the person sitting next to you.
Life is good. It really is. And for a bunch of people for whom I care deeply, it's about to get better in ways they can't even imagine.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Dad, when's Mom coming home? She cooked the books better
Item: Top Enron theives get much-deserved vacations as guests of the United States Government. Mr. Fastow gets 10 years, Mrs. Fastow gets five months. She serves her term first so he can, ahem, stay at home with the kids until Mom's out of jail. When Mom gets home, she's on house arrest for five months while Dad goes and serves his time.
These assholes enriched themselves by almost $30 million by stealing money. It wasn't "creative accounting." It wasn't "shifting resources." It was stealing money. They deserve to rot in prison just as much as a petty thief does. Pardon me if I doubt their qualifications as parents.
And if, in those five months when his wife is cooling her heels at the federal spa, Mr. Fastow doesn't hire a babysitter and run off to some offshore tax shelter, I'll take back calling him an asshole.
Item: Top Enron theives get much-deserved vacations as guests of the United States Government. Mr. Fastow gets 10 years, Mrs. Fastow gets five months. She serves her term first so he can, ahem, stay at home with the kids until Mom's out of jail. When Mom gets home, she's on house arrest for five months while Dad goes and serves his time.
These assholes enriched themselves by almost $30 million by stealing money. It wasn't "creative accounting." It wasn't "shifting resources." It was stealing money. They deserve to rot in prison just as much as a petty thief does. Pardon me if I doubt their qualifications as parents.
And if, in those five months when his wife is cooling her heels at the federal spa, Mr. Fastow doesn't hire a babysitter and run off to some offshore tax shelter, I'll take back calling him an asshole.
Monday, January 12, 2004
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Current mood: Muddled
I find myself suddenly in need of a USB hub. My Christmas haul included a digital camera and a scanner, and I received a hand-me-down Lexmark printer a few days later. All of these devices are USB, which is glorious. Between my two computers, I have eight USB ports, but two of the Mac's four ports are taken by the keyboard and the mouse.
The sun shines in a beautiful blue sky out the window to my right. However, it's not quite 50 degrees. To most Floridians, that's friggin' cold.
I've finally found a minute to answer e-mails that have been sitting in my Inbox for close to a month. Sorry, y'all. I'll try to get better about that.
I find myself on a rotating work schedule for the first time in a long time. This, of course, will be better than my previous work schedule, which was simply, "Be there all the time." For four weeks, I'll work Monday through Friday; for the next four weeks, I work Tuesday through Saturday, with Saturday being a night shift. Then, in four weeks, I switch back. There are worse scenarios, certainly. In an odd development, my job has actually been sort of fun the last week or two, now that Holiday Hell is over. This of course only adds to the confusion about my future; on Jan. 2, I was totally ready to give up newspapers and go work in a cubicle. Now, I'm reminded that some of the quirks of working in a newsroom are really very cool. It's enough to make you think ... well, to make you think I should probably be committed.
My mother's getting married in a few months. This is not something that, really, should not be a footnote in a series of bullet points. But she's been living with the guy for the last five years, so it's really something that was kind of inevitable has that kind of anticlimactic feeling of inevitability. I'm not 100 percent sure how I should feel about it, frankly. He's a fantastic guy, and being married to him will probably add years to my mother's life. And I'm happy that she's going to be doing something that makes her happy, after years of making decisions that have made her amazingly unhappy.
Back in the day, this is the point at which I'd pull the paper out of the typewriter, wad it up, toss it toward the wastebasket (probably missing to the left) and get on with my day. I'm reminded that the sound of pulling paper out of a typewriter was a pretty satisfying sound. No such satisfaction here.
Back in the day, this is the point at which I'd pull the paper out of the typewriter, wad it up, toss it toward the wastebasket (probably missing to the left) and get on with my day. I'm reminded that the sound of pulling paper out of a typewriter was a pretty satisfying sound. No such satisfaction here.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
Happy birthday to The Wife
Have you done exactly what you wanted to do for the last 10 years, and done so at the very highest levels possible, on your own terms?
Yeah, me neither.
But she has. This is why I found it puzzling that she's spending her 33rd birthday feeling like she hasn't accomplished anything.
Had she set another goal 10 years ago, she'd be sitting in a mahogany-paneled office somewhere, busting her ass at her $350,000-a-year job doing whatever the hell it was she wanted to do.
Instead, she chose another path. Back in early 1994, before the Old Daughter was born, she decided she was going to be the best stay-at-home mom on the planet. And she dedicated herself 100 percent to that goal. She read all the books. She surrounded herself with friends who shared her philosophies. We whittled down some debt and set some financial priorities. I took a series of better jobs.
After one uneventful pregnancy, we went through very difficult times bringing the next two kids into the world. She was undeterred, however; through every heartbreak, she found the strength to keep trying. She read more books, she talked to doctors, she discovered the Internet along the way. She asked questions. She got answers.
We now have three fantastic children. Not one of them has spent a second in day care. Every one of them is learning what they need to learn to be outstanding members of society, and they're doing so because their mother cares enough to make it her responsibility to see to it that happens. And when The Wife makes something her responsiblity, it happens, whatever "it" is.
Brief interlude from the Old Daughter ... she made her mom a poster for her birthday that reads (unedited) as follows:
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR MOMMY!
Here is 5 reasons why you should be happy about 'getting old' as you call it
1. You get to see new things
2. You wouldn't want time to stand still, would you?
3. You'd get to see your grandchildren.
4. You would see your children grow up.
5. Just because you should!
Here are 3 reasons you get older ...
1. Because you do
2. Because it just happens
3. Because you're a human being.
So be happy about being 33!"
Let's be honest here: If it were up to me, I probably wouldn't change a light bulb until every bulb in the house had burned out. The Wife doesn't operate that way. Problem? Solve it. Challenge? Meet it. Rule? Break it, if necessary. That's what she's teaching our children (well, all but the last part.) That's what she's taught me.
Brief interlude from the past ...
When The Wife was in college, she found herself in a required math class. She's just as mathematically challenged as anybody, and more so than most. She was already figuring her grade-point average as if she was getting a "D" in that class. Being pre-demoralized, she decided to change the course of the future. She stayed after class, she did her homework, she badgered the professor when she got stuck.
Her reward at the end of the semester: A big, shining "A."
Don't tell me she can't do anything she wants to.
Everybody who meets my wife comes away from that meeting a better person. I sure as hell did. I'm proud to know her, and I'm not sure what I did to earn the privilege of growing old with her.
Have you done exactly what you wanted to do for the last 10 years, and done so at the very highest levels possible, on your own terms?
Yeah, me neither.
But she has. This is why I found it puzzling that she's spending her 33rd birthday feeling like she hasn't accomplished anything.
Had she set another goal 10 years ago, she'd be sitting in a mahogany-paneled office somewhere, busting her ass at her $350,000-a-year job doing whatever the hell it was she wanted to do.
Instead, she chose another path. Back in early 1994, before the Old Daughter was born, she decided she was going to be the best stay-at-home mom on the planet. And she dedicated herself 100 percent to that goal. She read all the books. She surrounded herself with friends who shared her philosophies. We whittled down some debt and set some financial priorities. I took a series of better jobs.
After one uneventful pregnancy, we went through very difficult times bringing the next two kids into the world. She was undeterred, however; through every heartbreak, she found the strength to keep trying. She read more books, she talked to doctors, she discovered the Internet along the way. She asked questions. She got answers.
We now have three fantastic children. Not one of them has spent a second in day care. Every one of them is learning what they need to learn to be outstanding members of society, and they're doing so because their mother cares enough to make it her responsibility to see to it that happens. And when The Wife makes something her responsiblity, it happens, whatever "it" is.
Brief interlude from the Old Daughter ... she made her mom a poster for her birthday that reads (unedited) as follows:
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR MOMMY!
Here is 5 reasons why you should be happy about 'getting old' as you call it
1. You get to see new things
2. You wouldn't want time to stand still, would you?
3. You'd get to see your grandchildren.
4. You would see your children grow up.
5. Just because you should!
Here are 3 reasons you get older ...
1. Because you do
2. Because it just happens
3. Because you're a human being.
So be happy about being 33!"
Let's be honest here: If it were up to me, I probably wouldn't change a light bulb until every bulb in the house had burned out. The Wife doesn't operate that way. Problem? Solve it. Challenge? Meet it. Rule? Break it, if necessary. That's what she's teaching our children (well, all but the last part.) That's what she's taught me.
Brief interlude from the past ...
When The Wife was in college, she found herself in a required math class. She's just as mathematically challenged as anybody, and more so than most. She was already figuring her grade-point average as if she was getting a "D" in that class. Being pre-demoralized, she decided to change the course of the future. She stayed after class, she did her homework, she badgered the professor when she got stuck.
Her reward at the end of the semester: A big, shining "A."
Don't tell me she can't do anything she wants to.
Everybody who meets my wife comes away from that meeting a better person. I sure as hell did. I'm proud to know her, and I'm not sure what I did to earn the privilege of growing old with her.
Dispatches from the real world
Last Friday, while I was for the first time interviewing for a job outside the insular world of newspapers, a man sat in the editor's chair at one of the United States' largest and most respected papers. He was a man who had three Pulitzer Prizes in his pocket. He had reached the pinnacle of his profession, and he had done so by being a tough reporter and a fair boss. Many young reporters cited him as a mentor, saying he had helped them develop the skills they need to do a difficult job, and do it very well.
Meanwhile, I was 100 miles from home on Friday morning, sitting in the lobby of a Courtyard Marriott next to a gas fireplace (totally unnecessary in Florida, even in January), talking to a guy about newspaper computer systems. The guy carries a Vice President-of-something-or-other for this small Danish company that is looking to gain a foothold in the fairly competitive market of newspaper publishing systems. This company's philosophy recognizes that the print newspaper is fast becoming a thing of the past, and its system purports to integrate the print side with the web side better than anybody else's system.
While we were sitting next to that unnecessary fireplace contemplating the future of newspapers, this editor up the coast had no particular reason to contemplate his own future. Being Jan. 2, it was likely he was ready to sweep away the debris of a particularly bad 2003 -- besides the big news that we all had to deal with, his paper had a short but ugly labor dispute, also. In that part of the country, it seems, labor disputes are always ugly. This editor's newspaper had been purchased a few years ago by a large, stridently anti-union corporation, and he was feeling pressure from the home office to get the profits back up to where they were before they made a few piddly concessions to the union.
The unnecessary fireplace crackled as the sun shone in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The VP-of-whatever asked me questions about my skills, my history, and my future desires. It's known that I haven't enjoyed my last few years as a journalist, and that I've been contemplating other avenues. Part of me really wants a regular job with regular hours, a job in which I don't live at the whims of whichever terrorist is in a bad mood that day. Part of me wants to try something completely new and different, something outside of the comfort zone I've spent all of my adult life -- and the last year or two of my adolescence -- building. It would involve some risk, certainly. The job involves a lot of travel, it would at some point sooner rather than later involve me moving the family 100 miles to the southwest, and perhaps most frightening, would involve something that I haven't been doing for the last 18 years. There's a chance I wouldn't know how to do it. I know how to do my current job, as well as anyone and better than most. In that, I have solid job security. To give that up in mid-career for something that brings with it not only the risk that I would suck at it but also the risk of being part of a volatile tech industry, well, some would say that's a questionable decision.
I have no Pulitzer Prizes; if I did, I could give you a solid guarantee that I would never be in a position where I would be fired from a newspaper. My current skills earn me respect from my co-workers; a Big Award of some sort would earn me respect from the industry at large. I'd be like this editor up the coast, sitting pretty at the helm of a large newspaper.
My conversation with the VP-of-Whatever went fairly well. He told me to expect a call in the next couple of days from the president of the company. We exchanged business cards and I headed back home, with 100 miles of road in front of me on which to contemplate my future.
As promised, on Monday, the president of the company did call. I was knocked off guard by the strictly-business attitude of the guy. He seemed to have little passion for publishing, or computers, or, really anything. He was a Businessman. I've spent years cultivating a deep contempt for Businessmen. Soulless assholes who care nothing more than making a buck, who hire people based only on what they can see on paper, who don't create anything. This guy came across on the phone as one of those people. He clucked-cluck at my lack of a college degree. He questioned my stated desire to not move immediately, noting that for a while, I'd have a Very Long Commute. He was calling from the home office in Maryland; we ended the conversation with him saying he'd be in Florida later this month, and we'd set up a face-to-face meeting then.
Roughly the time that phone in Maryland hung up, a newspaper editor elsewhere in Maryland was headed into his boss's office, a newspaper editor with credentials as solid as anybody's.
He walked out of that office with the unsteady gait of a man with a boot firmly planted in his ass.
The publisher cited her desire to have a "true partner" in explaining her decision to fire the man who had been her paper's editor since 2000, before her corporation bought the newspaper. She said this guy was an "excellent journalist, but our partnership was not where I wanted it to be in terms of where we can take the newsroom in the future."
In short: She didn't like the guy. So she shitcanned him. His replacement: The editor of the newspaper for which I work, owned by the same corporation. His departure was announced to us at a staff meeting at 10:30 a.m. Tuesday. At 5 p.m. Tuesday, he was in the other newspaper, introducing himself to his new staff, which was less than pleased to meet him.
This means things will change at my place of employment very soon. The editor will lure people from our paper up the coast to work with him. A new editor will come in and change things to fit his or her needs. It likely won't affect me very much at all. It could affect me a lot.
I'm left wondering, though ... my concern was about job security at a small company in a volatile industry in which I have no real credentials.
Apparently, when it comes down to it, having rock-solid credentials at a large, stable company doesn't do you much good sometimes, either.
Last Friday, while I was for the first time interviewing for a job outside the insular world of newspapers, a man sat in the editor's chair at one of the United States' largest and most respected papers. He was a man who had three Pulitzer Prizes in his pocket. He had reached the pinnacle of his profession, and he had done so by being a tough reporter and a fair boss. Many young reporters cited him as a mentor, saying he had helped them develop the skills they need to do a difficult job, and do it very well.
Meanwhile, I was 100 miles from home on Friday morning, sitting in the lobby of a Courtyard Marriott next to a gas fireplace (totally unnecessary in Florida, even in January), talking to a guy about newspaper computer systems. The guy carries a Vice President-of-something-or-other for this small Danish company that is looking to gain a foothold in the fairly competitive market of newspaper publishing systems. This company's philosophy recognizes that the print newspaper is fast becoming a thing of the past, and its system purports to integrate the print side with the web side better than anybody else's system.
While we were sitting next to that unnecessary fireplace contemplating the future of newspapers, this editor up the coast had no particular reason to contemplate his own future. Being Jan. 2, it was likely he was ready to sweep away the debris of a particularly bad 2003 -- besides the big news that we all had to deal with, his paper had a short but ugly labor dispute, also. In that part of the country, it seems, labor disputes are always ugly. This editor's newspaper had been purchased a few years ago by a large, stridently anti-union corporation, and he was feeling pressure from the home office to get the profits back up to where they were before they made a few piddly concessions to the union.
The unnecessary fireplace crackled as the sun shone in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The VP-of-whatever asked me questions about my skills, my history, and my future desires. It's known that I haven't enjoyed my last few years as a journalist, and that I've been contemplating other avenues. Part of me really wants a regular job with regular hours, a job in which I don't live at the whims of whichever terrorist is in a bad mood that day. Part of me wants to try something completely new and different, something outside of the comfort zone I've spent all of my adult life -- and the last year or two of my adolescence -- building. It would involve some risk, certainly. The job involves a lot of travel, it would at some point sooner rather than later involve me moving the family 100 miles to the southwest, and perhaps most frightening, would involve something that I haven't been doing for the last 18 years. There's a chance I wouldn't know how to do it. I know how to do my current job, as well as anyone and better than most. In that, I have solid job security. To give that up in mid-career for something that brings with it not only the risk that I would suck at it but also the risk of being part of a volatile tech industry, well, some would say that's a questionable decision.
I have no Pulitzer Prizes; if I did, I could give you a solid guarantee that I would never be in a position where I would be fired from a newspaper. My current skills earn me respect from my co-workers; a Big Award of some sort would earn me respect from the industry at large. I'd be like this editor up the coast, sitting pretty at the helm of a large newspaper.
My conversation with the VP-of-Whatever went fairly well. He told me to expect a call in the next couple of days from the president of the company. We exchanged business cards and I headed back home, with 100 miles of road in front of me on which to contemplate my future.
As promised, on Monday, the president of the company did call. I was knocked off guard by the strictly-business attitude of the guy. He seemed to have little passion for publishing, or computers, or, really anything. He was a Businessman. I've spent years cultivating a deep contempt for Businessmen. Soulless assholes who care nothing more than making a buck, who hire people based only on what they can see on paper, who don't create anything. This guy came across on the phone as one of those people. He clucked-cluck at my lack of a college degree. He questioned my stated desire to not move immediately, noting that for a while, I'd have a Very Long Commute. He was calling from the home office in Maryland; we ended the conversation with him saying he'd be in Florida later this month, and we'd set up a face-to-face meeting then.
Roughly the time that phone in Maryland hung up, a newspaper editor elsewhere in Maryland was headed into his boss's office, a newspaper editor with credentials as solid as anybody's.
He walked out of that office with the unsteady gait of a man with a boot firmly planted in his ass.
The publisher cited her desire to have a "true partner" in explaining her decision to fire the man who had been her paper's editor since 2000, before her corporation bought the newspaper. She said this guy was an "excellent journalist, but our partnership was not where I wanted it to be in terms of where we can take the newsroom in the future."
In short: She didn't like the guy. So she shitcanned him. His replacement: The editor of the newspaper for which I work, owned by the same corporation. His departure was announced to us at a staff meeting at 10:30 a.m. Tuesday. At 5 p.m. Tuesday, he was in the other newspaper, introducing himself to his new staff, which was less than pleased to meet him.
This means things will change at my place of employment very soon. The editor will lure people from our paper up the coast to work with him. A new editor will come in and change things to fit his or her needs. It likely won't affect me very much at all. It could affect me a lot.
I'm left wondering, though ... my concern was about job security at a small company in a volatile industry in which I have no real credentials.
Apparently, when it comes down to it, having rock-solid credentials at a large, stable company doesn't do you much good sometimes, either.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Thursday, January 01, 2004
Welcome aboard, y'all
Time to hop on for another spin around the calendar. Here's sincere hope that this spin goes better than the previous one, for all of us. Happy new year, and a genuine, unrepentant thank you to the people who were the few bright spots of 2003:
To American soldiers who performed the only duty their families and friends really care about: Coming home alive.
To business owners and managers who made do with a little bit less so their employees could have a little bit more.
To The Wife, for giving me a reason to wake up every morning.
To everybody who votes -- no matter which way you vote.
To all of you who are serious about breaking free of whatever binds you to something that sucks and going out in search of something that's good.
Thanks again to all of you for what you contribute to me. I hope I'm giving back in kind. Please tell me when I am -- and more importantly, when I'm not.
Time to hop on for another spin around the calendar. Here's sincere hope that this spin goes better than the previous one, for all of us. Happy new year, and a genuine, unrepentant thank you to the people who were the few bright spots of 2003:
Thanks again to all of you for what you contribute to me. I hope I'm giving back in kind. Please tell me when I am -- and more importantly, when I'm not.