Deco

I won’t say where, but I recently encountered one of the coolest security guards in the world.

I was visiting a lovely Art Deco edifice a while back, and I wanted to take a few pix of the sedately ornate lobby, which featured the inevitable slim, half-naked figures that decorated the era’s most fashionable elevator doors. My picture-taking finger itched madly, but I held off and approached the security guard’s desk first.

As I’ve learned over the years, asking permission to take photographs isn’t just polite, it’s pre-emptive. Some buildings have rules against snapping pix, and security personnel will shut you down the moment you pull out your camera or phone. Reasons vary. It might be a licensing issue, or for security purposes, or simply because they don’t like shutterbugs cluttering the hallways. Most building owners in the Loop don’t have a problem with tourists and architecture buffs looking around—at least in the buildings worth commemorating. On occasion the guards are into it. I’ve had rent-a-cops chat me up, gleefully pointing out particularly pretty features, and sharing historical factoids—some even let me know it was okay to walk up a flight or two for a better shot. These folks know that while they may be running a business, the structure is their public face. Why not show how damn pretty they are?

Others aren’t so welcoming, covering up their buildings like a wizened duenna shielding her charges with curtains and scowls. Some, to their credit, instruct the guards to let people know they can look, maybe even touch… but NO pictures. Usually though they’re not friendly about it. In one building I asked sweetly if I could take a few pictures of the breath-takingly ornate lobby. I was not only sternly told no way, the guard followed me around, ensuring I didn’t capture the elevators’ and mailbox’s souls with my black magic eye box.

Because I am secretly feisty, however, whenever I’m impolitely denied access, I get crafty. I equate buildings and their lobbies with public art—accessible and unavoidable should mean photographable. So suffer me a few snapshots, yes? If a guard is particularly snippy and not terribly observant—and I’m not talking about restricted government buildings, banks, or places where you have to be buzzed in—I come back later and take a few shots from the belt. Buildings, particularly old ones, were created to meld commerce with art, and were thus imagined and constructed to be seen and enjoyed by the public. I have a theory that modern business architecture of the mid- to late-20th century purposefully became boring and soulless to counteract this belief. At some point the corporate sphere said, “We don’t want people to like our buildings. We want to be able to tear them down whenever we wish. Above all, we want them to say, ‘Go away. You don’t belong here.'” Every day I look out my office’s window and see Trump’s blue glass phallus and Mies van der Rohe’s big ol’ domino, and I think, “You may be admired, but you will never be loved.” Of course, they snottily answer back, “What makes you think we give a damn?”

So, the coolest security guard in the world… I ask him, politely, if I can take a few pictures.

“No, I’m sorry, that’s not allowed,” he replied, nicely enough.

“Oh…” say, a touch dejected. “Thanks, anyway.”

“But, you know, maybe I’ll just walk around the corner over there.” and he gestured to a spot about 30 feet away. Then he took off for a few minutes.

“Aha!” I said, brightening.

He left, and I took a few quick pix for my files. The ornamentation was limited, but tasteful and lovely, and while the building isn’t one of the famous ones, it has that 20s Chicago charm lacking in the surrounding glass and steel beasts. Later research revealed that it was made to honor the ideas of Louis Sullivan and John Wellborn Root. I think I’ll make a few calls and see if I can get a tour. in fact, I’ve been toying with the idea of trying to get into Chicago’s tallest pre-1930s structures.

The guard returned and I gave him a silent thank you. He nodded. Good man. Good man. Preservationists and architecture aficionados everywhere appreciate your discretion, sir.

Just to Be Clear: I Wish We a Had a Thousand More Like Him

“I’m an asshole. You’re an asshole. Why are we such assholes? We should be nicer to each other. Fuck me. Fuck you. Fuck everything. Why don’t we appreciate LIFE and NATURE more? Technology is shit. Don’t you just wanna kill your kids? Fuck me. Fuck you. Fuck meeeeee. Thank you! Good night!”

My impression of Louis CK doing stand-up.

By the way, I love his work and think he’s hilarious. Sometimes he just strikes me as a guy who wants to wrestle with the big questions, but stops every now and then to size up his opponent and realize, “Oh, shit. I’m totally gonna get my ass kicked.” Then he leaves the ring and walks to the concession stand to eat another hot dog. Keep swinging though, Louis! You’re a dingy yet glorious angel.

Here Comes a Chopper, to Chop Off Your Head. Just Kidding.

I once joked with an individual from a well-off family that maybe we needed to send the rich a message about sharing and not mucking with others’ opportunities by creating intimidating golf cart-drawn guillotines. The guillotines would be periodically driven through particularly rich neighborhoods as a reminder that things can go south rather quickly, and history was rarely kind to aristocrats who got piggy.

I was joking. He didn’t laugh. in fact, he looked nervous.

And I realized, “Good God, you folks actually worry about that happening, don’t you?”

Flying Velvet Unicorn Meat

7dbffc53b4941094_landingNote: I know this is well overdue, but I’ve been ruminating about this article and the writer’s plight for some time since reading it. Basically, here’s why it’s okay for writers (and other artists) to think the world owes them a living when we provide services. Expecting otherwise is downright un-American.

When you’re younger and say you want to be a writer, people look at you as if you’ve decided to breed flying velvet unicorns for a living. Parents, teachers, and minimum wage employers are the most common criers of boo. The nastier ones tell you to forget about it because you’ll die poor, hungry, and alone. The limply supportive ones beg you to find a “career” and do a little writing on the side—you know, to be safe. Just remember: it’s not a real job. More on that later.

But you keep it up, and eventually someone might decide your words are worth paying for. Not a lot. Nothing close to compensating you for your time, research, expenses, etc. The most I ever got was about $1,200 for an feature article. Awesome, right? I must be wearing mink underwear under an ermine jumpsuit, right? Well, after calculating the aforementioned, time, research, expenses, etc., and including the endless rewrites insisted upon by the editor (who, according to his suggestions, appeared to be reading a different article) I should have cleared way more (and let’s not get into taxes, healthcare, social security, etc.—you have to mail the government their chunk on your own). But you make sacrifices, because thank goodness you’re being published, and you understand the publishing industry is always in a rough way. You take what you can get.

And then you grow older. You acquire a spouse, perhaps, a home, children, and so forth. You take on writing jobs you’d rather not do or get a day job you don’t hate (if you’re lucky), to keep food on the table. Society continues to be no help at all. Even as it consumes writing in the form of books, newspapers, the Internet, films, TV shows, and so on, it still views you as an aberration. On the face of it, you produce nothing of value. You can’t eat an essay; you can’t build condos on a novel. And after all, writing isn’t WORK! Writing is “fun.” Bricklaying, plumbing, accounting, selling, marketing, lawyering, and so on—by gum, those are REAL jobs that deserve to be given a living wage, because they
contribute. And they’re boring—unless you’re lucky enough to have a penchant for cement, figures, and torts.

The arts and artists, on the other hand, deserve to suffer, because what do the arts ever PRODUCE that can be bought and sold?

You know, besides books, newspapers, the Internet, films, TV shows, video games, advertising, and so on.

Anyway, it’s good to suffer for your art! Oddly, society feels it’s not good to suffer for your selling, marketing, or  number-crunching. Let me repeat a phrase I coined in a moment of inspiration: Have you ever heard of a “starving young accountant?”

Consider this (and I’m not picking on any particular professions; merely pointing out the facts): even a mediocre to middling lawyer, accountant, or salesperson can earn a living wage. I’m not saying it’s easy or that they work any less hard than a writer, but the system is geared to compensate them for showing up, mucking in, and not messing up—as it should.

Conversely, writing success is rarely equitable to just compensation, according to hours worked and income generated. In the aforementioned fields of publishing, TV, and film, success is parsed out to a lucky, talented, formulaic, shrewd, and/or whorish few. You’ll notice a recurrence of certain names in your favorite media and fan sites. No matter how enjoyable or abysmal their output. They are the few who presumably worked hard, got a break, found an angle, established themselves as dream- and taste-makers, and got paid well for it besides.

Most writers… Well, that never happens for us.

As a full-time writer, you end up in one of four situations: (1) ruling your own personal Stephen Kingdom and making money hand over multiple fists (extremely rare) or making enough doing what you love to afford a comfy home, regular meals, and two dentist visits a year (just plain rare); (2) working a day job (more common); (3) having an EXTREMELY understanding spouse who carries the burden of bringing in a regular paycheck (infrequent but not unheard of); or (4) taking every job that slips over the transom while living on microwaved burritos (too often).

I’m not singing the socialist blues here. It’s a fact of life that we live in a  capitalist society, and in a capitalist society you work if you want to survive, because hard work is compensated. At least, that’s the way it used to be, more or less.

The business of business is business, not to mention screwing every person, place, and thing on the planet out of one more nickel. Human beings have long been both ladders and obstacles (with their selfish needs for food, water, shelter, and love) to profit. Thus far American labor laws remain powerful enough to ensure (legal) workers aren’t buggered TOO much, and by and large, cheating people and working them to death are still somewhat frowned on. I’m not talking about undocumented workers, obviously, and minimum wage is purely a joke, but my point is that the general rule is that you MUST compensate people somehow for their time and effort, otherwise, they’ll walk away. How then to ensure you squeeze every last drop of sweat from their bodies and minds while you have them under your thumb? If you’re not paying people enough, your first resort is fear. Work, or I’ll fire you. Work, or I’ll dock your pay. Work, or your kids don’t eat. Work, or I’ll make you even MORE miserable. Work! Regardless, the bosses eventually reach a point where they can’t scream and starve efficiency out of their workers. So, what’s next?

Why you make them “partners,” of course. Not business partners with stock options and whatnot, naturally, but, you know, chums!

Enter the implementation of happy-face corporate programs, disingenuous penny-pinching, and the return of the nonsensical notion that one’s work life is equitable to one’s home life. Your time, skills and knowledge aren’t being rented, pal. Your paycheck is secondary to participating in a splendiferous never-ending picnic of joyous labor. Grab a potato sack, champ, and start racing! Uh, but before you do that, can you stay late to prep that PowerPoint for the CEO’s presentation tomorrow? Golly, why do you look so annoyed? Pulling together is what families DO, right? What? You haven’t seen your real family in weeks? I don’t follow you.

This appears to be what’s happening with our beleaguered writer. Publishing is hurting, pal, and the “family” needs you, because we’re all in this together. The offer of “exposure” in lieu of grocery money is just their little way of stepping up and saying thanks.

Editors who pull this crap know better, since they too are doubtless being reamed by requests from on-high to be more “proactive” (e.g., letting support staff go and assuming more duties for less dough). I suppose “exposure” is an attempt to give something back. Personally, I find it less insulting than the several times an editor tried to schmooze work out of me, because hey, bro, your stuff is very… very… “hip,” amiright? Then again, given a choice between being schmoozed and being offered nonmagical beans for my work, I’d choose… neither. Because it’s a scam either way.

People who aren’t writers may not understand why an experienced scribe wouldn’t leap at the chance for “exposure” in a major magazine. Let me put it this way. Ask any CEO you know if he or she would accept a million pin-back buttons bearing their face instead of cash or stock options. Jeepers, ask anybody on any company’s staff anywhere if they would accept a full-page ad plastered with their face in the major metropolitan newspaper of their choice, in lieu of a month’s pay.

Ah. That daylong flush of excitement doesn’t seem so enticing now, does it?

Exposure is a term of relative value. I’d say that if you’re in your early 20s and starting out in the writing racket, and an editor from a top-tier mag offers you a chance to have your work appear on their blog for naught but “exposure”—you ride that pony until it drops dead, chum. Silver platters show up infrequently—so do it and add an impressive tear sheet to your young, emaciated portfolio (just make sure you retain the rights; there’s no shame in requesting a one-time reprint contract). But here’s a sour truth, kid. Unless you set the editors and their readers afire, that’s likely it for you for a very long time. You might end up in some mid-market mags, newspapers, and sites, and you’ll probably poke along if you keep working your ass off, but you’re not displacing anyone at Harper’s or the New Yorker on the basis of one blog post. Still, well done. I wish you every happiness.

Now, let’s imagine you’ve been writing for 20-plus years. Maybe you haven’t cracked the high-profile markets, but you’ve done okay with local papers, a few web sites, and the like. Maybe you’ve got a small-press book or two under your belt. You’re not a hobbyist or an American primitive discovered typing in a bayou shack. You’ve paid your dues. You’ve flown the flying velvet unicorn past your parents’ front window to their delight. You’re a G-D writer for a living.

And then some editor from a magazine—one from whom you might have collected a stack of rejection letters—comes along and asks you to rewrite a piece of yours for them, for free. No, not for free—for “exposure.”

We’re not talking about a charity or nonprofit you’d contribute to out of the goodness of your heart. No, this is a mag claiming to present ads “from energy companies to luxury products to top tech brands.” (And Scientology too, apparently, cough.) As they love to trumpet, they have A-listers writing for them. They seem to be doing okay. Toughing it out maybe, trying to please the owners, but they’re staying put. According to the articles I’ve been scanning, they’re doing fantastic with their digital presence. Digital… Hey, that’s like blogs and stuff, right?

But they just can’t shake loose with a quarter a word for an article. That’s about $300 for a 1200 word piece; I think I averaged about $250 for an article of that size when I wrote for the Chicago Journal. Not much, but something. I didn’t expect the very local newspapers I write for to pay me my weight in gold. But, man, that Atlantic “exposure.” What a plump, juicy plum, right?

Except it’s not an appearance in the actual magazine, it’s a blog post. Unless your piece memes harder than Grumpycat, your “exposure” will involve a few friends sharing your Facebook link to the site. You are literally working for nothing—no money, no promise of further publication, not even placement on the home page. You’d have equally good results posting it to your own blog. They’ll clear X number of bucks through click-throughs, no doubt, but at least your mom, dad, and significant other will be impressed.

Still, I get it. It sounds cool. I’d probably do it myself because I’m one of those writers with a day job, and I consider writing a vocation, not a career (though I wouldn’t say no to a book contract). But I have no illusions. I’ve had similar “breaks” and near-breaks that came to nothing. Let me give you a grandfatherly piece of writing advice, young scribes—do not wait for the single event that will launch you into the big time. Just work hard, enjoy yourself, and promote your work (no one else will). If fame and fortune come, they come. If not, at least you’re doing what you love. That’s only slightly more rewarding than “exposure,” but it’s something.

Still.

This “exposure” thing is noisome. Claims that exposure is a worthy substitute for pay are irrational to the point of insult. Firstly, and as the Wonkette article points out, this amply demonstrates the beleaguered state of modern journalism, and the workload imposed on editors due to cutbacks. The bean-counters determine that if more work were done by fewer people, there is greater potential for profit. That one human is now doing the work of three—often to deleterious effect for all parties; quality DOES slip, you know—however, escapes them. Best to prod that person to challenge themselves and “innovate” and “impact” ways to improve work processes. If they can’t, well, they’re just being difficult. Fire ’em. Better yet, suggest that you’ll fire them. That’ll pour nitro in their gas tank, and you’ll get three to five months of extra work hours out of them. Hey, editor! BOO! Get your writers to work for exposure peanuts.

We can’t feel too bad for the editor mentioned in the piece either, despite Wonkette’s suggestion. She knows damn well prison life is slightly better for trustees. She’s achieved a comfy position and decided to remain in place by exploiting (or attempting to exploit) others. That’s unfair (both to her and the writers she’s soliciting), not to mention lousy business. This attitude has become endemic in the working world. While companies are pulling in profits, they’re still telling the proles, “Golly, we wish we could throw you a bone, but, you know, we’ve got bills to pay. Heck, we’re barely hanging on here. So why not muck in, champ? Spend a little of your own dough? We’re all in this together!” Where it becomes egregious is when the organization plays the austerity card for years.

Note the mushy statements like “unfortunately…can’t pay you for it” and “I understand if that’s not a workable arrangement for you, I just wanted to see if you were interested.” She’s trying to soften the impact of asking him to suffer a little bit so she, and her magazine, can fill a column and sell ad space. Do you know what that’s called? Manipulation. It’s running a long con, involving many marks in this case, I’m guessing. How many other authors were approached this way? How many sighed, added another notch to their belts, and said, “Oh… okay… I guess so…”? The writer’s work, as well as his or status, is likewise denigrated and devalued further. And the attitude spreads: “Why should I pay you when I can get a hundred writers like you for free?”

This perception is becoming prevalent. Publications are no longer viewed as conveyances of information; they’re ad sheets tacked together by articles and photos. Without advertising, say the moneymen, you wouldn’t HAVE your little Mickey Mouse weekly readers! Yet, they forget that without articles, no one would see their damn ads. The fact that video and audio have supplanted print is entirely different discussion, but let me stress this: people read books, newspapers, and magazines not for the ads, but for the articles. The ads are targeted at these people because of the editorial content they peruse and enjoy. But this perception is being slowly obliterated because it allows for greater profit. “Writing and photography is valueless, so let’s cut the budgets and staff to the bone. But…pursue free content by convincing the creators of their “worthlessness.” Nyah-ha-ha.”

Fellow writers, remember: IF THEY ASK YOU FOR CONTENT, THAT MEANS THEY REQUIRE/DESIRE IT. It HAS value.

There’s another level to the above, not discussed in the piece; though this is only my supposition. Requests like these always carry an implied threat, whether intended or not. “If you work for free this time, I’ll remember you fondly. If you don’t, well, I’ll remember you were ‘difficult.’ No other promises though if you say yes. In fact I’ll probably ask you to work pro bono again.”

When you’re trying to make it in any business—especially one as insular as publishing—you don’t want a “difficult” reputation—particularly when you aren’t difficult. That goes for both sides of the equation. Writers will write for you and write well if they are suitably compensated to the point of being able to buy groceries. So, what gives with the shakedown? What stomach-dissolving need are you fulfilling by shaking down a writer? Wait, I have it. Greed.

Let me quote Heath Ledger’s Joker: “If you’re good at something, never do it for free.” Internships are an exception, I suppose. I recall a local journalist making the case for young reporters coming into local and regional papers to do scut work for nothing but experience. The supposition, however, is that because you are young you probably know jack about the business when you’re starting. The danger rests in attempts to let the average age for interns creep into the late 20s. I imagine we’ll have thirtysomething interns before long, paid with a robe, a daily handful of rice, and a begging bowl. Personally, I believe unpaid full-time intern/apprenticeships only work for Victorian cobblers and blacksmiths, and that they’re just another scam to preserve profit. However, if you’re in school and Mom and Dad are providing a roof and filling the fridge, take advantage of working for nothing for a while to build that portfolio and resume.

But if you’re writer already in the business—and an old hand at that—don’t go for “exposure” unless you can afford it. In fact, don’t bite; because you’re setting a precedent for the next thousand or so writers, and perpetuating the contradictory bugaboo we writers have had to fight all our lives: it’s okay to screw writers, because they produce nothing of value.

Strangely, the media continue to display an insatiable appetite for flying velvet unicorn meat.

Life Lesson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life was giving my friend Leslie shit, so I snuck up on him, knocked him out cold, dragged him to my car, and threw him in the trunk. I drove Life out to a remote location where I yanked him out of the trunk and kicked him half to death. Then I called Death. He cackled and walked the rest of the way from his house join in the beat down. Life swore he’d back off, but not before he man-checked me with a punch to the crotch and ran off. I might have avoided the punch if he were a taller man, but Life’s short.

You Know… Morons.

I’m not excusing Obama and his administration for the recent revelation of all that juicy phone and Internet data they’ve been amassing, but… I always imagine that whoever is president, on their first day someone takes them to a room filled with certain people from the intelligence community, private industry, the military, and the like. Then they tell the president, “Let’s understand something. On the face of it, you’re in charge of all that stuff over there—the economy, defense, social programs—but this… what WE do… nobody touches it but us and our appointees. Now, if any of what we do ever comes to light, you’re going to take the heat, so make damn sure you keep this all hush-hush. Play ball and we’ll even let you get in on some of this action. Sound good? If not, you’re finished. We don’t mean we’ll assassinate you. We’ll just make it impossible for you to get things done. Stick with us and you may even rack up a few wins.” Then the Prez, if he isn’t a black-hearted or dim-witted stooge already, says, “Sigh… Well… okay.”

It not so much a cabal of ancient evil of supernatural intelligence and power that stretches back for centuries, as it is a bunch of glorified executives trying to keep the machinery working. Except, like most people in management, they have no new ideas and keep falling back on Draconian reactions, “Well, maybe if we just, you know, crimped civil rights a little bit—just a LITTLE bit—we could catch more bad guys? You know, just to be safe. But hey, maybe if we crimped them A LOT, we’d be even safer! Stuff’s gotta get done, you know?”

I’m certain these people never see themselves as the bad guys. They just have a duty to maintain the status quo, y’know, and to do it with no interference at all.

Well, maybe not ancient evil. Stupid evil, more like.

Just Thinking Aloud

Inspired by recent events, but applicable in general.

As a rule, noncombatants only amass and fight against the odds in large numbers when they’re seriously aggrieved. Their motivations may differ, and their methods may be questionable, but when it comes down to, “We’re being discriminated against, injured, and murdered; we just want relief—stop hurting us or we’ll overthrow you,” and you’re the one they’re protesting, it is very likely you’re the bad guy.

Cryyyyyyyyying, OOoooooverrrrrr Yooouuuuuuuuu!

The surprise that Obama would choke up (“show emotion,” as ABC’s site refers to it) while thanking his staffers reminds me of the older relatives who think of me as one of those “new fathers”—that is, a guy who’s deeply involved in raising his kids. They mean it admiringly, but it’s funny that in 2012 some folks still react as if it’s a rare and unusual thing. Crying tears of joy and pride? Staying home to change your kids’ diapers, play with them, and teach them? INCROYABLE!

Of course, most people in my circle think, “Wow, that Obama. What a mensch!” I find it nice to know that society’s opinions about “proper” male behavior are changing for the better. I’m not saying we should be bawling all the time, guys, and fretting about our lack of life-giving milk production ability (from what my wife and lady friends tell me, breasts are a pain in the ass—so, we dodged that boobular bullet). I just think a real man (and hell, a real woman) should be able to survive in wild with nothing more than a pen knife and a single match, AND willing to get a little weepy while delivering a wedding toast.

We require a new definition for “man up.”

Cliff Fiscal (Not Pictured)

Yeah, I went to school with Cliff Fiscal. Weird kid. He’d turn up out of nowhere at parties he wasn’t invited to, and you could never get him to leave. He’d never bring anything, of course, but he’d constantly wonder aloud if we’d have enough food and drinks to last the night—not that he’d make a beer or food run, of course. The worst part was how he’d spend most of the party talking with the other guests, sharing his paranoia and saying things like, “Boy, I SURE hope this porch we’re on doesn’t collapse.” or “Man, if this place caught on fire, we’d ALL fucking DIE.” or “You know what that black line is up the shrimp’s back? Feces.” Some of the jocks thought it was funny to watch him creep out the guests, so they took him on as a kind of mascot. “Heyyyyy! Didn’t you invite, Fiscal? I’ll call him up! Good ol’ Cliff Fiscal!” What dicks. God, I hated that kid.