Newspapers Get A Kick In the Masthead

I love newspapers. Wall Street Journal's snootiness and conciseness.  The New York Times Sunday paper and its long-time love affair with the arts.  My local weekly's folksy charm.  I love them as much as they love me, the subscriber.

The problem with today's major dailies, IMHO, is they got greedy.  My mom would say, "What goes around, comes around." They charged high ad rates and didn't budge when smaller clients couldn't afford them.  They offered incentives to new subscribers but never proactively communicated with us regular, long-timers again except an annual bill.  A few on the editorial staff could be... challenging... to deal with.  Egos... personalities... revenue...  less cooperation, and more focus on the almighty dollar.

Where did those tactics get them today?  Just sayin'.  

Lesson learned? Be kind, fair and just in business, and in life.  Bad karma always come back around to give you a big kick in the masthead.  I love newspapers, and hope they survive in a better and more collaborative business model (e.g. online), and the personalities behind the newspapers learn a valuable lesson about grace and humility.

He Knows... There's No Santa. Or Easter Bunny. Or Tooth Fairy.

It is April 8th, and the Easter holiday is just a few days away. We are surrounded by such religious symbols as giant chocolate bunnies, colored hard-boiled eggs, and marshmallow chicks. (I know, you've heard all the jokes. Moving on.)

Is it a very bad sign when you pull into your driveway, thoughts of Easter dinner menus swirling in your head, and there's a dead bunny rabbit steps from your humble abode's entrance? I jokingly said, after "EEEWWWW! A dead rabbit!" and swerving the minivan, "Guess no jellybeans for you this year, kids!" It was a joke...

My ten year old son, the careful pragmatic dude, pipes up, "It's okay, mom. We know it is you and dad anyway. Like Santa."

WHAT??? The jig, as they say, is up.

It's 9 p.m., seven year old daughter in bed snoring, and I go to have a little bedside chat with the young lad, who happens to inhale Peeps like they are the last food on earth.

Me: "Uh, what did you mean when you mentioned the Easter Bunny and Santa, honey?"
Lad: "Oh, I knew you were Santa 'cause I know your writing on the tags, mom. Duh."
Me: "Darn. Don't ruin it for your sister."
Lad: "I won't. But she probably knows." (Translation: I told her already.)
Me: "Well, play along. You know that Santa is real in our hearts, as a symbol of generosity and love and kindness, right?"
Lad: "Sure. Whatever. We still get presents, right? G'night."

I close the door, heading for the tissue box. Sniff. I'm resolved to still sneak around December 24th, and I'm gonna hide those eggs I slaved over Saturday night, and those kids will have a blast no matter what, gosh darnit. A mom's gotta do what a mom's gotta do. It's in the handbook. Look it up. Page 52, after "New Year's Eve: Try Drugging the Kids For Faster Bedtimes."

Happy Easter, Passover, and Marathon Monday/Patriots Day to my Bostonian friends... may the spirit of all the holidays live in your heart... no matter what the kids tell you.