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Hello?
April 8, 2008

Read with a smile our Soapbox this week from an anonymous flack.

Let me recount a similar anecdote from the other side.

I finish a profile; we get ready to page it.  At 6pm, I email the author's personal publicist for a hi-res .jpg of the author's headshot, and another of the cover art for the author's forthcoming book.

By 10am the next morning--today--there's nothing in my inbox.  Assuming the author's publicist doens't have the files sitting on her hard drive, I call the house, which is a venerable independent, hoping to get someone in publicity on the phone.

The phone rings; the house has its own switchboard.  I identify myself; the operator puts me through to publicity.

The phone rings, and a young, uncertain voice says: "publicity?"

Understanding that I am not talking to someone who can actually do anything, I pause to see if the name of the magazine registers as "something important."  It seems to. Ok.  Proceed.

I mention the name of the house's author, and the month the book is due to pub. Small signs that, although the specifics are not recognized, they are in fact possible things that happen at the place where this person is currently employed.

Then the denouement: two hi-resolution digital images, urgently needed. I spell out my email, slowly and clearly.  I also spell out my backup work-gmail address, in case our overactive spam filter tries to snag the big, bad files.

There is an absorbed silence on the other end that doesn't betray any bafflement.  I am being lulled into contentment.

I am then told, however, that the Big Flack is in a meeting, and that nothing can happen for 15 minutes. 

Against, my better judgment, I agree to this.  Instead of immediately escalating.   Even more stupidly, I do not get my interlocutor's name.

I hang up, and go beat the line at Lamazou.

I get back, and inbox evidences only the dismal failure of the spam filter, more "Plum Benefits" from HR, emails from production asking for the art, and a bunch of correspondence for a Secret Giant Time Suck that is currently in the Excel stage.

Meaning, Nothing Has Happened.  Bafflement and inaction where I so recently apprehended, if not glorious detail oriented behavior, then someone who was scared enough to Get The Message Across To Someone Who Would Get It.

I call back, and get the Switchboard.  This time I'm told there's a big sales conference, and my only option is voicemail.  I explain where I'm calling from, and that it's urgent, and that I don't want voicemail - that *someone* has to be available somewhere upstairs.  I am shut down, and transferred to voicemail mid-rant.

I hang up, and dial the author's publicist, assuming that she will have cell numbers, and can make this happen.  She gets it.

I eat my #13 sandwich, the Medisea.  Conference room TV is showing Bull Durham.  Susan Saradon's bedstand is shaking.  Then Kevin Costner is doing her toenails.  Then they're eating cereal.  She's speaking with a Southern accent. 

Return to desk.  About midway through this rant, my inbox lights up with big heavy files.  5 megs worth.

Cottage industries.  Still getting it done after 550 years.

Posted by Michael Scharf on April 8, 2008 | Comments (0)