Today I traded an Apple iPad for a flu shot because it was the ethical thing to do and because journalism is clearly out to show me just how much the industry hates me.
I went with a coworker, one of our ad reps who has the same first name, to the opening of this clinic run by a big local hospital system this morning. She's friends with the guy who does all the sales and marketing for the clinic, and I'm the health care reporter, so it made sense for us to go. We went, took a tour, got some free coffee (and a nice travel mug) and a danish and put our names in a drawing at the urging of the guy who works there. Why not, right? It'll probably just ensure I get put on their mailing list, but I'm the health care reporter, so it's cool, I want their mail.
I got back to the office and added a story about the opening to my budget, since it's going to be a noteworthy thing for our kind of readers. Midmorning, the ad rep comes in bouncing off the walls that she won the iPad and the guy had called her to tell her, and she was so psyched and I gave her a hi-five and thought, Dude, iPads are sweet. I've been lusting after one since they came out (after I got done making all the feminine hygiene jokes, because they write themselves, right?), and I secretly hope I get one for Christmas from my family but I can't justify buying one because I'd got a wedding party to finance (alcoholic journalist friends are expensive to buy booze for) but maybe we'll put it on our registry. Whatevs.
The ad rep swings by to go pick up her iPad, and then I get a phone call in the early afternoon when I'm driving back to work after a late lunch. It's a person who works at the office who says, Congrats! You won an iPad! And I laugh and can hear the ad rep laughing in the background and think it's all a giant joke.
Because journalists do not win things, people. Never happens. Except that one time Dan won a 10-pound Crunch candy bar as a door prize, but it was at a college journalism reunion thing, not a work thing, and it doesn't count because I'm still bitter that he didn't let me have any of it for a YEAR. He just displayed it like a prize on his bookshelf.
Anyway, so I think it's a joke and laugh and they say, No, really! And I say, Yeah, sure, give it to our ad rep and she can bring it back.
Turns out the guy who does all the sales and marketing just read the first name on the slip that was drawn, assumed it was the ad rep, called her ans said, You won! when in reality is was my name on the slip and I won. The ad rep was all dejected and came back with an iPad, and I then I was stuck: I couldn't accept an iPad. A health care reporter who regularly reports on this parent company and who is writing a story about this opening cannot accept a $400 piece of glorious touch-screen wonder life-changing awesomeness.
Phil, since you were my ethics professor and mentor, I know you would be proud of me. And damn, I wish you were around so I could tell you this story because it is so good.
So I have to call them back and be like, Well, I thought you guys were joking, and now that there's an iPad sitting here in the office, I can't accept it. You guys will have to redraw. We have a general editorial policy of accepting nothing worth more than $10--it lets someone buy you a fancy-ass cup of coffee, maybe, or get some general trinket/token they give out to everyone (like the awesome mug).
The guy who worked there was very nice about it all, and came back to pick up the iPad so I didn't have to drive it over (which would have made it so tempting for me to steal it away and then to claim, I was hijacked! Someone stole it!). Then he said he felt horrible and had to offer me something. Could I, would I, accept a flu shot?
I said yes.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Friday, November 05, 2010
(This Is A Long Sad/Angry One)
Dear Phil--
Today I went to your funeral. I found out you died on Monday morning, when Dan called me at my desk with the news. It was pretty surreal--remember when he got laid off and I had to have him repeat what he just said to me? Same sort of thing. He said that you'd died, and I just felt shocked, angry and sad all at once.
All week I've been grappling with this feeling that you're not really dead. That it's just a rumor, or a crazy story I've heard, and that I should file it away in the back of my mind to tell you about the next time we met for lunch.
I'm so glad I got to see you about a month ago or so for lunch. Thanks for paying, by the way. You get it--you'd been a cops reporter before, you'd worked all sorts of journalism jobs, and you knew that even though Dan and I could pay for ourselves, it would help if you paid. And you did. Even for the slices of pie we all had.
I also wanted to let you know I joined the membership of the church we had talked about, St. Mary of the Assumption. Dan and I didn't know what to do in terms of joining a church and establishing a membership to get married, and I was really glad when you said you liked St. Mary, just down the street from where I live. That's the church where you got baptized and where you got married, and that's where Dan and I plan to walk down the aisle next fall.
I'll be honest, I'm really, really angry you're not going to be there. In so many ways, you were like family and friend wrapped up into one, and you know that's not an easy thing to do. Dan and I even briefly considered trying to get you to marry us, but then we opted for the full mass instead, which requires a priest, not a deacon. Remember when we were joking about getting Bob Schieffer to our wedding, and how we asked what we had to do to get him there? You said that you'd probably have to die in the same week, because then he'd already be in town and might be willing to go to the funeral of two journalists he's never met. He gave a beautiful eulogy today, by the way.
After the funeral a bunch of fairly young college alumni went out to eat and drink at Fuzzy's Tacos. One of the former students said that was where you used to take your college journalism ethics students after the end of the semester, which made me feel old (I know I'm not) because you used to take classes to Jon's Grille, when it was still around. One person made the comment that it was very Irish of us all, going out to drink and talk about you and life and journalism, and I answered that it was just very reporterly of us. What else were we supposed to do? (On a side note, I'll admit I'm writing this with a few drinks under my belt, but you never turned down a good drink and I've seen you drink mai tais with little umbrellas, so I feel ok about that.)
You were one of the kindest people I ever met. When I was a senior in college and became really, really sick with mono and a host of other concurrent infections, you gave me some leeway on my final project and let me turn it in late after seeing how sick I was and how I had a hard time just getting through classes, much less doing anything outside of class. Of course, you also expected the best of everyone, and you were totally right when you scolded me and my editors for eating a cake that had been left in the ads department. It wasn't our cake to eat (even though it was really, really delicious.) I'm really glad I bought a replacement cake before you found out about the whole incident. I feel like every journalist who's known you should always keep in mind, "What Would Phil Record Do?"
There are a lot more things I've thought about writing, because all week I've know I'd have to write you and let you know my thoughts on all of this. For a while I thought about writing everything out longhand, in a reporter's pad or something like that, but I feel ok with putting this on something goofy like a blog. You were a big proponent of communication, of the media, no matter what form it took. I always looked forward to getting e-mails from you, when you'd start by saying "Beloved Liz" and end saying, "Love Ya, Phil." I don't know how to hold on to those things that you sent me. Do I print out the e-mails? That seems bizarre. Do I keep them in a folder? That seems even more bizarre, since maybe someday e-mail will be passe and everyone will communicate in some other way.
I don't know what to do to hold on to the few things I actually have that you gave me in some (semi) tangible form, but I do know that everything you taught me, starting more than five years ago when I was just a student in your media ethics class, an editor of a student newspaper, will stay with me. I like to think I'll be a journalist forever, I won't give up and do something else, but it wouldn't matter if I did. The things you taught me -- to be a gracious, kind-hearted person, to expect people to try their best, to forgive when people didn't, to laugh frequently and to never had a bad day, to be proud of the people you love in your life -- will last forever, even if my journalism career doesn't. You should have seen all the people at the church today. They all felt the same way. And that, in my opinion, is saying a lot.
I love you and I miss you,
Liz
Today I went to your funeral. I found out you died on Monday morning, when Dan called me at my desk with the news. It was pretty surreal--remember when he got laid off and I had to have him repeat what he just said to me? Same sort of thing. He said that you'd died, and I just felt shocked, angry and sad all at once.
All week I've been grappling with this feeling that you're not really dead. That it's just a rumor, or a crazy story I've heard, and that I should file it away in the back of my mind to tell you about the next time we met for lunch.
I'm so glad I got to see you about a month ago or so for lunch. Thanks for paying, by the way. You get it--you'd been a cops reporter before, you'd worked all sorts of journalism jobs, and you knew that even though Dan and I could pay for ourselves, it would help if you paid. And you did. Even for the slices of pie we all had.
I also wanted to let you know I joined the membership of the church we had talked about, St. Mary of the Assumption. Dan and I didn't know what to do in terms of joining a church and establishing a membership to get married, and I was really glad when you said you liked St. Mary, just down the street from where I live. That's the church where you got baptized and where you got married, and that's where Dan and I plan to walk down the aisle next fall.
I'll be honest, I'm really, really angry you're not going to be there. In so many ways, you were like family and friend wrapped up into one, and you know that's not an easy thing to do. Dan and I even briefly considered trying to get you to marry us, but then we opted for the full mass instead, which requires a priest, not a deacon. Remember when we were joking about getting Bob Schieffer to our wedding, and how we asked what we had to do to get him there? You said that you'd probably have to die in the same week, because then he'd already be in town and might be willing to go to the funeral of two journalists he's never met. He gave a beautiful eulogy today, by the way.
After the funeral a bunch of fairly young college alumni went out to eat and drink at Fuzzy's Tacos. One of the former students said that was where you used to take your college journalism ethics students after the end of the semester, which made me feel old (I know I'm not) because you used to take classes to Jon's Grille, when it was still around. One person made the comment that it was very Irish of us all, going out to drink and talk about you and life and journalism, and I answered that it was just very reporterly of us. What else were we supposed to do? (On a side note, I'll admit I'm writing this with a few drinks under my belt, but you never turned down a good drink and I've seen you drink mai tais with little umbrellas, so I feel ok about that.)
You were one of the kindest people I ever met. When I was a senior in college and became really, really sick with mono and a host of other concurrent infections, you gave me some leeway on my final project and let me turn it in late after seeing how sick I was and how I had a hard time just getting through classes, much less doing anything outside of class. Of course, you also expected the best of everyone, and you were totally right when you scolded me and my editors for eating a cake that had been left in the ads department. It wasn't our cake to eat (even though it was really, really delicious.) I'm really glad I bought a replacement cake before you found out about the whole incident. I feel like every journalist who's known you should always keep in mind, "What Would Phil Record Do?"
There are a lot more things I've thought about writing, because all week I've know I'd have to write you and let you know my thoughts on all of this. For a while I thought about writing everything out longhand, in a reporter's pad or something like that, but I feel ok with putting this on something goofy like a blog. You were a big proponent of communication, of the media, no matter what form it took. I always looked forward to getting e-mails from you, when you'd start by saying "Beloved Liz" and end saying, "Love Ya, Phil." I don't know how to hold on to those things that you sent me. Do I print out the e-mails? That seems bizarre. Do I keep them in a folder? That seems even more bizarre, since maybe someday e-mail will be passe and everyone will communicate in some other way.
I don't know what to do to hold on to the few things I actually have that you gave me in some (semi) tangible form, but I do know that everything you taught me, starting more than five years ago when I was just a student in your media ethics class, an editor of a student newspaper, will stay with me. I like to think I'll be a journalist forever, I won't give up and do something else, but it wouldn't matter if I did. The things you taught me -- to be a gracious, kind-hearted person, to expect people to try their best, to forgive when people didn't, to laugh frequently and to never had a bad day, to be proud of the people you love in your life -- will last forever, even if my journalism career doesn't. You should have seen all the people at the church today. They all felt the same way. And that, in my opinion, is saying a lot.
I love you and I miss you,
Liz
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