Small hells of journalism

Current t-shirt: Infiniit character with funky wings and tennis shoes.
Current music: Bruce Springstein, "Devils & Dust."

By which I mean transcribing. Love interviewing, hate transcribing. And I hate the thought of having someone else transcribe. Even if I could afford it, it's like paying someone else to do your stinky underwear. Convenient, but hardly honorable.

Spent the day transcribing tapes of two interviews with Booz Allen Hamilton employees. They're involved with Urban Enterprise Initiative. The name sounds like some ponzi scheme or con-game, but it's actually a noble venture. Booz Allen people are volunteering their expertise with business to small businesses in Harlem - good ma & pop places that might not otherwise be able to survive the new 'hip' 125th St. area.

[Ever notice how, once the '90s went away, so did all those little ironic tic-marks?]

Anyway, they speak in business-speak, but they're fighting the good fight.

***

Another small hell of journalism - I made the common mistake of writing two pieces without a contract in hand. I was expecting one amount, and so may get another. I wrote my boss, let's call her Margaret the Martian, a letter saying what I thought the two pieces were worth and the price for the book review section I'm already putting together (which she has okayed).

Ms. Martian hasn't gotten back to me. Neither has her rather sweet henchman.

By the way, never write for someone before googling them. Ever. Found out Ms. Martian has a slightly shady past. I wish it were something cool, like drug trafficking, or moon-lighting as a striptease. That I can respect. But plagiarism? Ick.

Love and my burned ass,
The Red Pooka!