Monday, March 27, 2006

YEAH, I GOT SOME IDEAS

In fall of 2001, shortly after the United States sent forces into Afghanistan, a major news network decided to do a story about how a paper the size of The Telegraph was covering that war. I told our then managing editor that he could become a legend in journalism if he followed my advice. To seize greatness, I told him, he need merely look into the camera bewilderedly and utter two words:

"What war?"

I was not surprised when my advice was spurned. Many of my best ideas -- ideas that would have put The Telegraph on the cutting edge of journalism and perhaps revolutionized the entire industry -- have been banished to the Land of Nod without a fair hearing during my 10 years at the paper. But now they get their rightful chance.

One of the first really good ideas I had to help the paper came when we decided to ditch three comic strips -- The Phantom, Rex Morgan, M.D. and (I think) Mary Worth -- from the comics page. Dropping a comic strip is one of the greatest sins a newspaper can commit (along with getting the horoscopes wrong) in our readers' eyes, and there was quite an uproar about this. Some readers went as far as saying that we didn't care about them. Well, of course, we care about our readers. But we sometimes find it hard to show that.

Here's where my idea could have helped immensely. I thought that what we should do is tell readers that we were dropping the comics not because white-man-in-the-jungle adventure was no longer cool but because coming strips of The Phantom and Rex Morgan were going to take disturbing turns. The Phantom's next adventure, we should have said, was going to take him to San Francisco, where in a series of bath house encounters he begins to realize what his true sexuality is (this one isn't so far-fetched; let's face it people, the Phantom, purple tights and all, is a closet gay). Dr. Rex was going to suffer a series of business reversals that would lead him to abuse his prescription privileges and that would culminate in his mixing Viagara and LSD with shocking consequences. Rather than see their heroes take a fall, we decided to quit running the strips.

Cost-cutting is a perpetual concern of newspapers, and I was ready to help here, too. The features department used to run the "Critters" (don't you just love the homespun folksiness?) page on Saturdays. It was a page full of advice about how to care for pets, and it also had photos of dogs and cats up for adoption in the Bibb and Houston animal shelters. (By the way, I think somebody at the Bibb County Animal Shelter hates animals. Bibb would send us very unflattering photos of the cats and dogs, in one case sending us a photo of a dog that appears to be lunging -- teeth bared -- at the camera!) The person laying out the Critters page was encouraged to put biographical information under each photo, and write it up with a little "attitude." Something like "I'm a female black Labrador, about 1 year old. I am good with kids and very docile. But don't call me bitch!"

Anyway, as the cost of newsprint continued to rise, our paper had to start dropping pages, and the Critters page was tipped the black spot. But wait a minute, I said, we don't have to get rid of the Critters page; we can fold it into the food section. And under the photos of the pets, we can start writing stuff like "I am a 1-year-old male Irish setter. I am very good with children, or, with a proper marinade, I am a wonderful en brochette appetizer." This idea got collared pretty fast.

My ideas extend to how we greet and reach out to readers, as well. I have long said that we should have on-hold music. But not just any music. I'm talking about songs people like, songs like "Strokin'" by Clarence Carter or the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself."

And we need to drop that whole "Invite us home" advertising campaign. Believe me, I have used that line at bars, and it rarely works. What we need is a TV ad that shows us as hardass news hounds. Journalists so relentless about getting the story that we have been known to sometimes perform full body-cavity searches on sources that are insufficiently forthcoming. We need to have a TV spot that ends with our metro editor snapping on a latex glove and saying, "Here at The Telegraph, we'll go anywhere (snap!) to get the news you need."

The harshest rejection was when I suggested we try something a little different, graphically speaking, for the St. Patrick's day issue. I thought we should try to get this little guy in as a tone-setter for the front page.

Yet again, the Telegraph's powers that be rejected this suggestion out of hand.

These are but a few of the ideas that I have had to try to help our paper improve. Though they keep getting rejected, I won't let that stop me. I know the future will vindicate me. Or not.

Monday, March 20, 2006

OUR TV FRIENDS

I think our TV friends are our most generous friends. Week after week, they let us come into their lives just so we can see what they're up to, and they never intrude upon our lives. This is great fun because our TV friends are often several tax brackets removed from us yet condescend to confide in us.

However, we can often find ourselves in awkward positions with our TV friends: How do we tell them they have become a little stale? I mean, look at the opening credits to The Andy Griffith Show. For more than 40 years, Andy and Opie have just kept walking down that country lane, never trying to do anything different. How do we tell them that, though we have greatly appreciated their company these past decades, their stuff is becoming painfully boring. Maybe if we do so, they might try something different. Something like Andy and Opie walking down that country lane with their fishing poles ... and a sultry beauty in a tight dress approaching Andy in a forward, suggestive manner. Andy talking to the woman, then pushing Opie toward home as he puts his arm around the woman and they walk off in the other direction. Or what about Opie wheeling an inebriated Andy back home in a wheelbarrow? What about a shot where we first see Opie running full bore down that road and then see Andy chasing after him, firing his pistol at the boy's feet because Opie had painted a mustache on Andy while he was sleeping? What about showing the two of them fishing? It would be so cool if a giant bass leaped out of the water and snatched Opie down to his ankles before plunging back in the lake.

I think any one of those ideas may put some freshness back into the show.

Another problem with our TV friends is how to make sure they really are who they appear to be. You see, they have the upper hand on us; they know that we are going to be visiting them at certain times, and so probably put on their best behavior when we are there. But suppose we dropped in unexpectedly? Suppose instead of visiting Mayberry on a Tuesday night, we visited it on a Thursday night? We might see Andy Taylor applying a rough, Southern justice to a busload of Freedom Riders. We might see why the preposterously Caucasian Mayberry has no black people.

Similarly, suppose we went to Walton Mountain on a Saturday night instead of a Thursday night. I bet you dollars to doughnuts we would see a totally different family. Ma and Pa Walton would probably be drunk as hell, and the dialogue would probably be something like "Heet 'im, Daydee! Heet Grampa uhgain!"

And every time we stopped into see the Mission: Impossible crew, they always took the assignment. But maybe we might catch them slacking off if we surprised them. Or we might see that their missions didn't always further the cause of liberty. Imagine the tape saying "Good morning, Mr. Phelps. The man you see before you is Esteban Rivera, the democratically elected president of a Central American nation. President Rivera is considering establishing a minimum wage in his country, a move that would adversely affect a major campaign contributor of the United States president. Your mission, Mr. Phelps, is to overthrow Rivera and set up in his place a corrupt military junta that won't make harvesting pineapples and bananas a black hole for U.S. dollars."

I know, such thoughts seem rude and uncharitable to our TV friends. But friends have to be honest with each other.

****

And speaking of TV friends, Kim's return to 24 was about what I expected: she is still pouty and dumber than a bag of hammers. At some point I was hoping Audrey would go up to Jack and whisper in his ear, "Don't worry. You and I can have one that isn't so stupid." The only thing that lacked credibility is that Kim's boyfriend made it off the show without losing a limb. Since Kim's boyfriends usually wind up dismembered, things would have been more believable if he had lost his hand while searching for a sticky note in a work station drawer.

****

And how's this for a Cherry Blossom Festival haiku:

Cherry blossoms bloom
heralds of the coming spring
I married a jerk

or this

Cherry blossoms fly
to color the city pink
screw my lousy job

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

SAVING REALITY

I suppose it was inevitable that reality TV begin losing its grip on the American public; one can gorge on emotional pathologies for only so long. But I wonder whether this is indeed salutary for the nation. After all, though vicious gossip is one of the things that helps us get through the day -- it's easy to feel good about ourselves when we talk about what a bunch of creeps and screw-ups our acquaintances are -- it can be very socially awkward if the gossip is traced back to you.

As a matter of fact, in the highest circles, that might lead to utter disaster for all. Suppose that the vice-president's wife is entertaining the French ambassador's wife and the conversation begins to peter out as the veep's wife is holding forth about Impressionist art. A hopeless francophile, she panics when she notices the glazed look in the French woman's eyes and realizes she is falling out of favor faster than English cooking. So she switches the conversation to what the president's college-age daughter really did on spring break. Since the French crave gossip, the ambassador's wife spreads the tale until it gets back to the president and first lady. The enraged commander-in-chief forces the vice president to resign, thus splitting the party and leaving the "Nuke France" wing ascendant. The president is only too happy to oblige, yet in the aftermath Manhattan is suddenly bereft of French wines, leading to a collapse on Wall Street leading to economic ruin for the United States, a catastrophe that might have been averted had the vice president's wife and the French ambassador's wife discussed the latest episode of "Flavor of Love" instead of the president's daughter.

So reality TV might just have a healthy place in American life. Instead of directing our gossip at our neighbors and acquaintances, we direct it as people who have fervently courted our attention and thereby given up all claims to indignation and wounded feelings. And so they bear our bad karma and allow us to hold onto the self-esteem that greases the wheels of American life. Check it out: Flavor Flav -- American hero.

But reality TV, after it reached its zenith with The Littlest Groom, is becoming boring, and it needs a shot of life. And I just happen to have some suggestions.

Temptation Island should be brought back, but with a new twist. The original premise -- six committed couples sent to an island peopled with 20 or 25 single women and 20 or 25 single men (each one a genetic freak great looks), the couples then split apart to see whether anyone will succumb to the temptations of the flesh -- is trite. But imagine this: six people whose lousy jobs have pushed them close to a homicidal rage are placed on an island with 25 veeeeerrrrry annoying people. Weapons will be buried on the island and clues where they are will be available. The show will have an interactive feature that will let the viewers weigh in on who will kill first, and who will be the first to go.

One of the most successful reality TV venture was the Girls Gone Wild videotapes, the tapes that show co-ed hotties flashing their breasts during Mardi Gras, spring break or wherever young people go to expose themselves to strangers with video cameras. Again, the mise-en-scene needs a little tweaking. Instead of girls going wild during Mardi Gras, howzabout girls going wild during ... Mideast peace negotiations! Or what about Girls Gone Wild during ... open-heart surgery! Just picture that one: the brazen nurse, the startled, leering surgeon, fatal slip, the tragic geyser of blood. Or maybe what that franchise needs is a new direction altogether. Think Guys Gone Sensitive. "Watch these ripped fraternity hunks as they read poetry to their girlfriends, call back after having sex and leave the toilet seat down!"

Dancing with the Stars has been a recent reality success, I suppose because it shows glamorous stars struggling unglamorously to learn new steps and pick themselves up after they fall. It's probably meant to show that celebrities are just like you and me, but with more money and better plastic surgeons and personal trainers. If they really wanted to connect with hoi polloi, they would dance like the rest of us, and we would be watching Dancing with the Drunk Stars.

In any case, something must be done soon if reality TV is going to survive. And with it, our nation.

Monday, March 06, 2006

LEADERSHIP SUCKS

On occasion, I am tasked with running the news desk, a management moment I accept sullenly. It's not that I find the work too hard or too miserable; it's a job that has to be done and I'm someone who can do it. But being a substitute news editor is a little like being a substitute teacher: I am a steward of someone else's realm, bound by that person's rule.

What I do in my substitute role is sit at a humble work station and proof the pages in the A and B sections. On hectic nights, I might have to tell a layout editor that a neo-cubist page design is a really bad idea or re-order the story priorities if an elected official breaks the first rule of politics (at least for men): Don't get caught in bed with a live man or a dead woman. But mostly I just sit there, red pen in hand, hunting down and crushing the dangling participle and enforcing dictates that usually are not mine.

It's a far cry from youthful imaginings of how I would handle executive authority. I imagined that the trappings would be much cooler. I imagined I would have a large office, dark except for a piercing shaft of light that shone down on my stylized brushed-steel desk. Those who enter would see a large aquarium on their right and the back of my chair at the desk farther off. My voice would emerge from the chair, as I quoted some obscure 15th-century samurai poet. I would be saying something about killing your enemies lotus blossoms or something like that. Then I would swivel around in the chair, and the visitor would behold me in an impeccably tailored suit. I would be holding a rabbit. I would continue reciting the poem about destroying foes until I got to the aquarium. Then I would suddenly thrust home my point by thrusting the bunny in the aqauarium, which would begin churning with the carnivorous horror of piranhas coming off a strict diet. Suitably awed, the visitor would then beg to do my bidding.

Well, that didn't happen. So I take my disappointment out on my co-workers.

I usually begin the night by giving them a little motivational speech, something to get them to dig deep inside themselves for their best efforts. I tell them, "Now listen up, people. I am not your friend. I am a small man with a little bit of power, and you shall suffer accordingly. If you do well I shall claim credit for the inspirational idea and throw some small portion of glory your way. But if you do badly, I shall not take the fall with you. I shall hang you out to dry and point a long, accusing finger at you. It's up to you people; a little bit of glory or total culpability."

To further remind them of my authority, I go into the newsroom conference room to proof pages (see, I'm separating myself from them because they are unclean and beneath me). They must walk in to hand off their proofs facing me and -- this is very important -- bow and back away, never turning their back to me. It's a simple demand, but you would believe the caterwauling that goes up when I insist on it.

I have found that in management moments, you can't treat everybody the same. For instance, I work with several attractive young women who might be somewhat anxious about telling me of an error, given my early evening speech. If a man who fails me, I would simply rain blows upon him. But women must be treated differently. So I say to my female co-workers, "Look, it's natural to sometimes make mistakes; after all, we're only human. But hiding a mistake only makes it worse. So when you do make a mistake, don't be afraid to come to me and say, 'I've been bad, and I need a spanking.' And we can start fixing the problem." (Maybe I should have T-shirts printed up that have "Degrade me more" on the front.)

Sure, sometimes I guess I hit a nerve. I sometimes notice a saw coming up from the floor and cutting a circle around my chair, and I'm no stranger to fending off ACME robots -- but fortunately that company's shoddy workmanship serves my co-workers no better that it did Wile E. Coyote.

Is there something wrong with what I do? Uh, hell yes. But there is a motive to the madness. I have seen that the higher up you go, the bigger the headaches and the smaller the fun. Since I'm small on headaches and big on fun, I don't see me being an executive editor anytime soon. But should providence decide to punish me by giving me such a post, I have two words for you:

Show trials.