The Wacky Wiegler Year in Review (2014)

Well, well, well. You're probably reading this on your smartphone, or the mini iPad or some other tablet. If you are sitting at a desk reading this on a computer larger than a loaf of bread you are probably also listening to "Afternoon Delight" and playing Pong while you're at it. For in 2014, the year when everything journalistic was consumed not only digitally and quickly but minimally, everyone competed to do things faster and smaller than the next guy. If you were capable of reading font on a one-inch screen, hey, you've got a leg up on me. I'm still enlarging fonts and begging PRs to only send me releases with 12-point lettering. Yet, the trends toward faster and tinier were innocuous compared to the tragic assault on our industry that came with layoffs. Fewer and fewer of us were making a living as journalists -- from reductions at The New York Times to CNN to smaller papers such as the Orange County Register. At CNN, too, it seemed that the trend was skewing toward younger, blonder, perkier and less controversial. Watching Candy Crowley's farewell, for example, reeked of misogyny. I could be wrong, but it seems that she was pushed out in favor of attracting a male audience intent on watching women gorgeous enough to pose in magazines read the news. This is not to say that brilliant women such as Erin Burnett don't deserve to be there -- they do! -- but what would happen if say, they put on 30 pounds or aged 20 years? The average female broadcaster is either 35 or looks it, and is a size many real women/print journalists haven't been since high school. In newsrooms such as the Grey Lady's, a white woman, Jill Abramson, was pushed out for political reasons, ostensibly because she wasn't fair to her African American colleague, Dean Baquet, who would replace her. That may very well be true, but the PR for the Times wasn't great during this upheaval, and the ensuing layoffs a few months later were proof that all was not right there. Environmental journalists such as myself had been previously disheartened to see a full-on folding of this department, a trend that would later be echoed at NPR, also struggling. Yet, in the midst of this uncertainty, the blogosphere and Twittersphere continued to explode, resulting in a power for community-based journalism the big dogs could only envy. When stories such as Ferguson or even the death of Robin Williams were shared, many of us were just following Twitter, not the Times (New York or LA). So what's ahead for 2015? I predict more layoffs, sadly, at beloved papers and myopically male-controlled networks. I see more infotaintment, botox and IT smarties leading the way as the five Ws and one H real journalists learnt in J school fade away. Suggestion: If more philanthropists supported a New York Times, a Washington Post or even an Orange County Register, the civilized masses would be better for it. A strong local paper informs the populous in ways that paid-for-content rags cannot. As for coverage, the fallout from the 24-7 obsession by CNN with the missing Malaysian Airliner (the first one, the one we haven't found and which CNN doesn't appear to care about anymore) proves that networks can and will reverse course after a spate of bad press. It was almost embarrassing to watch as journalists on their shows went from the nonstop plane talk to seemingly considering it an afterthought. Another trend that will change may include how journalists cover celebrities. Anyone who interviewed Bill Cosby between the start of his career and the end of it, or most of them, rue that they let him get away with, if not murder, then rape after rape after rape. It sickened any reporter with a pulse to watch the way Cosby sought to intimidate the AP reporter at the art opening at the Smithsonian. Not sure what was worse - Cosby's arrogant request not to run the bit about the rape allegations or his wife's stupid smile. Celebrities are notoriously known for controlling interviews or trying to, and any journalist who doesn't play ball well, moves on to some kind of more respectable work. I'd love to see every journalist report the truth about celebrities, not allowing the spin doctors to control whether we reveal that say, Renee Zellweger really did have a little work done, or that Maria Shriver really did know about her husband's love child, but just hoped we'd never find out. And before you comment, Kennedy-and-Bridget-Jones fans, these last two asides were just speculation, ahem. Hopefully, one trend will continue to permeate our business, though: wit. There is no replacement for a fine intellect and biting pen. So I leave you with laid off OC reporter Kevin Sablan's (@ksablan) farewell tweet at 10:34 AM on June 9: "I'm leaving the company soon, and was happy to include farts in one of my last columns."

In 2014, a string of late night talk show hosts either announced their retirement or actually completed their shows, from Leno to Letterman and Craig Ferguson to E!'s Chelsea Handler, who moves on to Netflix next year. Photos: Wikimedia Commons Images including "Caricature de l'acteur américain Robin Williams réalisé au crayon graphite" by Fabrice Ledoux. Follow me on Twitter or contact me through www.lauriewiegler.com. Read my articles at www.muckrack.com.laurie-wiegler 12/28/2014 12:12 AM EST: This story was filed just a few hours prior to hearing that AirAsia Flight 8501 went missing, probably over the Java Sea.

Sex, lies and tweets: Why sexual harassment will never be okay

I'll admit: I have some personal baggage (is there any other kind) that makes me react severely whenever a man lies to me. This is both good and bad - good because I run away from jerks but bad because I tend to suspect, perhaps more than I should, that a fair portion of the men out there are less than angelic.

It would be unprofessional to launch into too much personal history, so I'll skip right to the professional aspect of my life, the part that enjoys male colleagues as much or more than my fellow females. I've always prided myself on being "one of the guys" one minute, a lady the next. This is one reason I think I did relatively well covering Wall Street. I knew when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, so to speak, never carrying a wink too far but then again, knowing when a skirt is better than slacks.

Decent men in the businessworld understand this game, and never take it too far. They have wives, girlfriends, sisters, mothers and they are learning, with every passing decade, that the "Mad Men" days ended long ago.

So it is with great heartache that I found out this week that a Facebook "friend" had admitted to sexually harassing at least two female scientists with whom he interacted. I have/had never met this FB friend in person, but when he friended me, I was flattered. I like to think someone's reading my stuff, especially a somewhat famous reporter, at least famous amongst the Nerd Ranks.

Now, this person is not alone in the world of misogyny and pain inflicted on females, but his particular stripe of criminality -- criminal in the emotional sense -- came because, as a science writer pointed out, the young are vulnerable and their trust should not be abused. I am paraphrasing; she said it far more eloquently.

She also pointed out that women in positions of power should not exploit the relatively unpowerful positions of the young men who come to us, some for advice, others for jobs, some for something in between.

In my experience, which is all I have, far more men have wanted something out of me than vice-versa, without being sincere or transparent as to their intent - whether it was the boss on a secretarial job who tweaked my elbows, sat on my desk to dictate and then, after I asked him to please get off, fired me the following day; or the aforementioned male reporter, who "friended" one of his victims, only to show her the very seediest antithesis of that word.

This gets back to the trickier, messier part: if some male has lied to us, as a young girl, then the lies that follow are magnified; and every lie becomes a knife wound. My hunch is that the perpetrators ("perps" for short) sense this vulnerability, and sadistically choose their targets for low self-esteem as much as for their youth, looks, what have you.

Why do I bring this all up? What does it have to do with journalism? Everything.

Because women who are trying to claw their way up the ranks not only deserve a fair shake, but deserve respect. It's not enough to lash out privately; we must climb up and shake our fists at the wind: "You will not be dishonest. You will not speak inappropriately to me. And you will not touch me. Not me, not my elbows, nothing."

I firmly believe that young women will have it easier as time goes by, but not easy enough. As Pres. Carter so aptly pointed out recently, women are raped on college campuses and these instances are going unreported. How many women are being desexualized, as Pres. Carter has brought to light? And here in the US, how many of us are overly valued for our sex only to be devalued on the sunset side of menopause?

To all the men out there with goodness in them; for every kind, decent, honest and honorable son, father, brother, husband, boyfriend and employee: keep doing right. Show your fellow men how to treat women. The world will never have enough of that.

The gentleman that is Letterman

The morning after Dave had interviewed Pres. Carter, I told my mom, who seems to respect my opinion on the subject of interviewing techniques because of my long journalism career (and our strong genetic link), that "he's the best interviewer on late night. Hands down. Followed by Chelsea, then Kimmel."

When Chelsea gave Piers that now-famous smackdown, "You need to pay attention to your guests!" I thought immediately of Letterman. Ms. Handler is very adept at putting her guests as the center of attention, and like Dave, will quickly say "enough about me" if guests get too inquisitive about the host.

Dave is the best interviewer on late night because he's a fantastic listener. He doesn't just nod as if trying to make the time pass, or resort to funny voices or childish dances with Justin Timberlake, but he actually puts the guest front and center. Now, if your late night cuppa tea is showbiz razzle dazzle, then perhaps yes, you want a late night host who can put on 47 different voices, play 17 musical instruments and inspire Stephen Colbert to throw pennies down his shirt.

But that is not what I want, and ever since Thursday's sad announcement, I've felt very cheated host-wise. Coming so soon after Chelsea's announcement that she won't renew her E contract -- news only mildly buffered by her agent's supposedly having talked to a dozen potential suitors, and Handler's relatively young age -- I wanted to indulge in self-pity Big Time.

But this isn't about me. Let me see if I can act like Dave and make it about the guest, in this case him.

He has listened to everyone from Regis to supermodels, Johnny Depp to the senior Mrs. Letterman, with equal amounts of curiosity and respect. I always got the feeling it was his mother, and perhaps his father, who instilled in him long ago that one should pay attention to his guest. This probably started in the family livingroom in Indiana, many years ago, when that gap-toothed kid sought the big time out west, and then east.

It's ironic that I would tell my mom how great his interviewing skills are -- to which Mom would remark, "I used to not know how smart he was, and then I realized, 'wow, he really is." -- just a few days prior to this announcement. I'd therefore like to see Dave do occasional specials, perhaps leaning more on the interview and less (but not too much less) on the comedy, maybe in the manner of a Bill Maher interview when he brings out an author before starting with the roundtable for the night. Dave would be very effective at that.

Perhaps he could start with Jennifer Lawrence, whom he's wrapped up in a blanket and nearly interviewed under the covers already. After all, it's a testament to his charm that he can still get the darling Lawrence to flirt with him years after Drew Barrymore did her little dance. And she's not the only one--heck, I think I saw Johnny Depp flirting with him Thursday night.

But clearly, Dave's heart is tied up elsewhere.

For, after delivering his sad news to us, he made my sides split once again: "What this means now is Paul and I can be married!"



Photo: A young David Letterman after accepting his Emmy for  Outstanding Writing in a Variety or Music Program,
1987, photo by Alan Light, via Flickr/Wikimedia Commons: (http://www.flickr.com/photos/alan-light/210403909/in/set-72157594230529525)

We should, but that doesn't mean me will

I recently made the mistake of taking someone at their word. This was a PR, so yes, I realize that was my first mistake.


However, when I went back to read their previous e-mail supposedly promising me answers to some questions the next day, I saw that the publicist had said "should". Should as in "we should have them to you by tomorrow".


I then realized that top level publicists must be well-versed in the art of dishones-uh, I mean-putting-someone-offishness. Sorry, is there a proper word for this? Or should I hold off looking that up until tomorrow?


This subtle difference is, of course, clear when I tutor ESL and have to explain to my student that when one says "should" it is not definite, but more definite than "may" and certainly more than "could".


So why is it that I took a "should get it to you tomorrow" as definite? Was it because I was desperate to meet my deadline (which, by the way, has passed) or was I projecting my own integrity onto that of the PR? I believe it was the latter. And again, see first graf, that was my first mistake.

Now, I have my problems. I can be impulsive, reacting to people and incidents when I should - that's should mind you - let the profanity/lost keys/burnt toast/Vogue cover (Kim and Kanye--reallllllly?) - just roll off me.


But one thing I never do is mislead people. I wouldn't even know where to start. As it is, when I look at my CV and see "basic French" I think, 'Should I explain what my definition of 'basic' is?"


And is my honesty and transparency the reason I am not as rich as the other person on the end of that "should" e-mail? And will my haughty self-righteousness guarantee me a place in heaven, replete with seven male virgins (not that that would be attractive, but I'm an equal opportunity fantasizer.)


If I, for example, started saying "Should" tomorrow, with whom should I start? I know, my mother. Next time she asks if I am coming for Christmas, I will say, "I should expect so."


Of course that won't be good enough for Mom, a retired fifth grade teacher and now a substitute teacher in Texas.


"Should? You SHOULD choose your words more carefully."


"Okay, I WILL, I WILL come for Christmas."


I could, though, try "Should" on the bus driver. "I should pay the fare."


Eye roll. "Really? I SHOULD kick you off this bus."


"Oh, okay."


"Should" on my cat?


"I SHOULD feed you."


"MEOW".


"Oh, okay...."


...
Let's face it, I'm just not cut out for subterfuge. And it's probably too late for me to start emulating wealthier scribes who obviously have no regard for my time or my feelings. But apparently, what they do have regard for are the nuances of language.


And that is something I can respect.

Hashtag I wonder, hashtag if I am editorializing?

Having just tweeted a story about a promising new AIDS drug cocktail for babies, I was left wondering if I was editorializing. Not by posting the story--though it could be argued that what a journalist chooses to post reflects her judgment and is hence, subjective--but by how I chose to hashtag it. This needs no explanation for anyone even remotely in or aware of the twittersphere; hashtag, notanewsflash.

So what are the rules about tweeting and journalism? If this has been written about somewhere, I am sure I haven't yet seen it. Sure, there are variations on this theme, such as how to add followers or find the right followers, how to create cool hastags and how to teach your dog to tweet.

But what about the hashtag itself?

I ask you, if I post one of my own articles such as I did today, regarding a decision in a New Orleans courthouse that upholds an earlier decision concerning payouts to businesses affected by the BP oil spill, if I hastag it #spillnews, am I editorializing? After all, there are spills every week, somewhere, to some degree, somewhere on the planet (I have not looked this up, but I, hashtag, am guessing.)

If I write #importantstory, that is obviously an editorial slant, but what about posting BP's point of view, linking to their press release?

I bring this up in part because in a recent blog I had published on Muck Rack, I discussed how PRs could win over the journalist. While I received largely flattering and favorable feedback, there was one sad sack on a Linkedin Group who dragged me over hot coals, accusing me of heading into the dark side myself if I wrote about, as I called it, "rogue Republicans".

I never quite did get his message, and I am kidding about the sad sack bit (don't know him), but the effect on me was actually more long lasting than anything the flatterers had to say. Here's why: we have to really keep a close guard on this thing we call journalistic integrity because it's threatening to slip away with every tweet.

I actually heard on John Tesh last night -- and I make no apologies for loving his radio show -- that people cuss more on social media than they do in person. Well, I certainly don't, but that is because I know Big Brother or Sister at my next dream job is watching me. (Also, my swear words aren't that imaginative. If I was a really good cusser like Chelsea Handler or Bill Maher, that might be a different story.)

So if we cuss our way through our tweets and hashtag everything, what's left of our objective journalistic self? Sure, Hunter S. Thompson would have loved the twittersphere and would have been hashtagging his way to the hash. He would have thought up all new swear words to hashtag: #slore (That was one a 20-something shared with me during a jealous rage a few years ago; and if you can't figure out what it means, psst: it's two words in one.)

I urge everyone who tweets and practices journalism, especially professionally, to take a more cautious approach to their next post. If you post a story about the president visiting Connecticut, don't tell me #excitedashell or #gagmewithamicrophone.

Keep your opinions to yourself. Unless, of course, you want to find a job in digital marketing, in which case there are #alotmorelucrativeopportunities.

All in the family - urp!

Writers need to be careful with their words. I am finding this to be more and more true as the dizzying race to create the smallest, fastest and sleekest mobile devices threatens to put us all out of business.

While it's bad enough that everyday people can't use words correctly -- everything from saying "your" when one means "you're" to using "me" instead of "I" and vice-versa -- the blight has now hit my profession.

Apart from poor and wrong word choice and grammatical sins, writers aren't giving a smidge about cultural and social sensitivity. Oh, you think I'm wrong about this? How many of you have turned on your TVs only to be sold to "your family"? You pet your dog/cat and are stumped. 'Are they speaking to me? I use/spray/devour deoderant/pest repellant/licorice, too!'

Well, here in America apparently non-families are the silent huge minority. How huge?

According to Nov. 2013 census data from the US Government, a whopping 31.4 percent of adults (defined as ages 15-85+ years), had never been married. According to the same survey, another 10.2 percent had been divorced; 2.2 percent were separated; 5.7 percent widowed; and 1.4 percent were defined as married but with a "spouse absent" (not sure how that is different from "separated", but hey, I'm enjoying being single.)

The majority of adults, 49.1 percent, were defined as married with a spouse present. Forty-nine point one percent. Apparently, enough to drive an entire trend in advertising, one that appeals only to families and only marginally to singles. Gay families are being included, as they should, at quite a clip but where's the love for we singles?

Admittedly, including teenagers in your sample is going to skew the results, and it did. To be fair, Census data shows that in my age group and others in the 40s-to-50s, the number jumps to over 60 percent. Yet, statistics still show that the number of divorces is significant, and in my age group, even higher than the number of never-marrieds.

Why is advertising discriminating against us, then?


It's almost as if Bridget Jones made the advertising community wary of anyone who could or would choose to enjoy the single life. Women especially are seen as less than. I remember while other little girls were dreaming about their weddings, I was dreaming about my children. When I was unable to have them, I certainly didn't care about a wedding anymore. I started dreaming about my career, the next trip to Europe, my cat Wally and yes, some exotic man on a barstool in France.

I think what is wrong with America is our feigned puritanical streak. Remember Hollande's visit? The big story on CNN and other news outlets was how to seat the man, singly, at this big fancy dinner. Honestly, do you think Michelle and Barack Obama cared one whig? I think Michelle even dug the chance to keep the spotlight solely on herself (and she did look fab in that Carolina Herrera gown, I must say.)

I'm not against families; I'm not against marriage or suburbia or middle-aged paunches. I'm against SUVs for environmental reasons, but that's another story....

So dear Advertisers of America (and I'm speaking to you, Sprint, with your "Framily" plan - and by the way, it took me a minute to figure out that wasn't just a misspelling), throw we singles a bone. We buy and decorate homes, throw lavish and not so lavish parties, eat chicken wings, put up Christmas lights and yes, suffer from indigestion and hemorrhoids just like the rest of you.

Happy 10th birthday, Facebook (I think)

Looking back at 2008, when I joined Facebook, I remember the following: I was on my way to Prague and Paris, holed up in a hotel the night before my flight. I'd heard Michael Phelps mention something called his Facebook account during an interview from the Olympics.

'Facebook?' what's that? Anything Phelps did, from eating Subway sandwiches to hugging his mother to swimming the butterfly resonated with me. No matter that I was a grown woman, the axiom: If Michael Phelps jumped off a bridge, would you? completely applied to me.

So I got a Facebook account.

And with it, two friends.

Then three.

I don't remember who my first FB friends were (sorry) but within the first couple years, I was friends with about five ex-boyfriends I'd dredged up from all points east, west and overseas. I'd found cousins - first, second, third, and I don't know are we related? - and grouped them as "family". I even friended and then unfriended at least three family members, because I was starting to find that Facebook. like the Thanksgiving dinner table, was just that emotional.

I "liked" Michael Phelps. My first like. I loved getting all his pictures and updates from vacations with buddies, following his romances and endorsements and swims.

But soon, within just a few months, I wanted to scream: "Darn you, Michael Phelps!"

I was receiving invitations from people I didn't even remember from high school, from cousins I never liked, from boyfriends who left me bawling in bathrooms like on a bad episode of "Girls". I was spending at least half an hour a day checking my page, then updating my page, then updating my profile photo.

Within the first couple years, I went from one half hour a day to probably two hours a day. Facebook eclipsed my TV watching, or I'd watch, say, "Modern Family" but have one eye trained on the laptop.

Facebook.

The relationship wasn't quite so dysfunctional with Twitter, even though I'd heard many people checked their Twitter crawl first thing in the morning.

Not me. I was all about tracking down that guy whom I dated after my sophomore year in high school, and when I found him, thought of him while at grown-up interviews in the real world, at home as I posed for my new profile photos, as I giggled with girlfriends on line. (Can you giggle on line?)

He and I mutually decided to end the Facebook friendship -- he was taken, after all -- and this hurt me all over again. Not as much as at 15 when it had happened for real, but it still picked at the wound. "You always seem to come back into my life when I'm heading in the wrong direction," C. wrote from his hovel in Hawaii.

Thanks.

What the bleep did that mean?

Facebook.

I liked dozens of things, then unliked them when I realized the cool kids didn't like much. My first love only liked two things, so I'd be like him. When I found that his ex had a profile shot on the ski slopes, I thought I'd do the same. Yes, I loved skiing, but this really sealed it for me.

I was starting to crack, so much so that by 2013 I had something like 5,000 photos uploaded. I had over 200 friends, a "normal" amount, and I actually knew about a tenth of them.

It became foggy whom I had met in the real world versus who was an actual friend.

This is when I decided to take a step back from Facebook. I started logging on every other day - at least for a week. I was proud of this, in the way I was proud when I eased off smoking.

Now, I don't want to quit Facebook -- how else would I keep track of my mom in Texas? -- but I don't want it to run my life.

I also fantasize about the day when I'll travel the world meeting all my Facebook friends in person. When I was in LA, I wanted to spend time with one of those friends, but didn't realize we weren't really that close in real life. That friendship soon ended. Part of me says if we can't be real friends, why are we on Facebook together?

That would bring my total "friends" list to about 15, though, and no one wants to see that.

Happy 10th Birthday, Facebook.

I think.

Overqualified or just undervalued? Why 50 is the new 50 in journalism.

 Michelle Obama, happy birthday!

Not to be a wet blanket, but at 50, you are lucky not to be on the job market. It's a jungle out there, even for women like you and I with beautiful biceps, handsome politician husbands and gorgeous daughters. OK, maybe that's just you.

When I left my last full-time job, as an editor at Genomeweb in Manhattan, I was in my mid(ish) 40s. I remember attending a workshop at the Department of Labor in New York. A guy was handing out flyers to over-50s.

"Oh, I'm not 50," I said, somewhat amused.

I got a look like, 'okkkkk, Miss 46-and-a-half....'

Someone there said, "I can talk to everyone about how to get a job after 50, how I did it. It can be done, but it will take perseverance and a bit of luck."

Oh, give me a break! You're telling me this is difficult? I do not think so, chubby...

I just needed to be there so I could officially collect my $400 a week or whatever it was for weeks I did not work. I hardly needed advice on how to get a job. After all, I had an interview scheduled with Dow Jones in London in just a couple of weeks. And I had at least five article assignments going simultaneously.


Might as well schedule that vacation to Prague, I thought. And by the way, didn't that lipstick at Sephora have my name on it? The coral one. Oh god, that fatso is still blathering on and on about how the over-50s will need help in the job market. B-o-r-i-n-g.

Well, that was 2008. Since that time, I've had several dozen freelance articles published and many in magazines and news outlets I'd only fantasized about writing for before--Scientific American, Slate, AARP, Prague Post, to name a few. However, I have struck out at every job interview I've had over these past several years. Lately, in fact, I've gotten more used to freelancing and less used to putting myself "out there" to try and find a job. You know, the thing with dental benefits (which I desperately need).


I do keep applying, but I am not getting calls. I got a few calls last year, but none of the interviews panned out. And with every failed interview, a little chunk of my self-confidence goes.

I recently was asked by my alumni association to edit a résumé by one of their young graduates. In doing this, I had to revisit the 23-year-old Laurie, she of the bright eyes and bushy tail - or at least the still hopeful young lady who'd laugh with friends over why a certain interview bombed. After all, it seemed that one out of three interviews resulted in an offer.

I told my dad once that I'd be writing freelance articles for the New York Times before someone would actually offer me a job again. I've now added becoming a published book author to that notion.

This is not to put out a negative vibe. Goodness knows that Dow Jones, Reuters, Crains, Bloomberg, American Metal Market, Chemical Watch and all the other publications and news outlets I've approached have had their reasons. I am sure there was some highly intelligent and super charming fellow journalist out there who upped me on so many levels. Too many levels to count.

I can't help but scratch my head, though, when I review my hundreds of clips and my "new words" list to see how much I've grown since my mid-forties. At 52 I am definitely more informed, more professional, and a lot more hilarious. I'm also a real pushy broad when I need to be, and can network through a cocktail party like a shark at the beach.

I'm just not 34 anymore, or even 43. I'm "mature". And something tells me, before too long the right publication will embrace this.

A toast to over-50s!  Now, where's that flyer again ...?

Michelle Obama pretends to play hockey in a "Let's Move!" and NHL partnership event with Chicago Blackhawks and Washington Capitals players on the South Lawn of the White House, March 11, 2011. (Official White House Photo by Samantha Appleton)