Over the past year I’ve been reprimanded many times—by photo editors, copy editors, editor-in-chiefs, press agents and writers—for my unorthodox ways of procuring information for magazine articles. I can’t help it. Because of my past career as a dancer I happen to know a lot of people in the arts world; meaning most of the men and women I interview on a weekly basis for monthly publications are people I’ve made out with at least once. No matter how many times I am told press departments are in place specifically to handle the demands of writers like myself for interviews, photos, and bulk orders of Pop Rocks, I know that calling the friend who’s in my cell phone contact list is much easier than repeatedly harassing an office worker by any means possible; sometimes I think the only way to get my point across is to hire a sky writer. But, as I'm learning bit by bit: sometimes you just have to immerse yourself within the defined system.
You’d think I could have learned this lesson when I published my first magazine with my best friend Michael at the entrepreneurial age of eleven. After years of performing musicals in the basement, where the ceiling looked like a peeling sunburned body due to using duct tape as adhesive for our “flats,” we were growing too big for the space and too heavy for the tables that doubled as stairs and platforms; each time we stood on them they would let out of perfunctory groan that got louder with each inch we grew closer to the ceiling. We needed a change of pace. So we emerged from our den of sequined depravity and did what any self-respecting almost-teenager in the mid ‘90s did: sat in front of the computer and played around on Kid Pix, an art program where single pixels took up half the screen and making a successful smiley face was seen as an accomplishment worthy of the museum wall.
We’d been there many times before. Through productions of “Titanic,” “Side Show,” “The Wizard of Oz,” and “Evita” we had always been savvy marketers intent on alerting our audience (my sister and her array of high school boyfriends) to discount ticket prices and the latest showtimes. But as we began to crack on the high notes of production numbers, to say nothing of the fact that I figured out my time in a wig was coming dangerously close to half of my time awake, we knew our reputations needed a boost.
Out of our collective thought womb came “The Beanie Bulletin.” The idea was simple: there was nothing more popular than Beanie Babies, the five-dollar plush toys that sent women and children diving into cardboard boxes the moment a shipment arrived at the local Hallmark. I myself was not only on the list to be called whenever said shipments arrived, but had managed to finagle my way into friendships with all of the Pam’s managing the stores around Montana. To our disbelief, there were no local magazines catering to this audience.
We set to work on our hodge-podge publication, scouring the internet for photos and news worthy items to fill our first issue, which in our minds was only a few Kid Pix graphics away from becoming a rival to the Missoulian for most-read publication in town. The next logical step would be a press tour. A visit on The Rosie O’ Donnell Show; an origin story special on Dateline; just a few casual stops where we would chuckle while we sipped coffee out of mugs aligned on a table in front of us and reminisced about the days before we had become, at the age of fourteen, co-editor-in-chiefs at People Magazine.
The success was going to be the easy part. Getting the first issue out on the newsstands was the chore. We spent late nights working alone, Michael upstairs on my personal computer and me down in my father’s office where Chekov plays stared holes into my back while I blatantly plagiarized articles from every reputable Beanie Baby source known to man. I’d set Michael up with tasks pertaining to the graphic design end of things since his meticulous nature made him an obvious choice for organizing the content and placing it beside the appropriate clip art. We barely spoke. I would charge up the white carpet staircase, pause momentarily, for reasons unbeknownst to me at the time, to “analyze” the twelve-foot tall portrait of a naked man on the first landing, and then complete my journey to monitor Michael’s progress while I leaned against the doorframe.
After a few marathon nights like this we printed out each of the thirty pages and made our way to Denny’s Copy Stop, a local printer with an interior as green as the Emerald City and a staff about as happy to see two twelve year olds coming through the door as the inhabitants of Oz were to see the Wicked Witch’s plume of red smoke trailing across the sky.
We crouched on the floor and sorted through the pages. Organizing was key, as we needed to lay them out in a way so that when we copied two 8.5x11 pieces on one 11x17 sheet they would fold together and staple in perfect order. This required a roll of Scotch tape and roughly three quarters of the copy shop’s floor space. Each time the bells on the door shook to signal the entry of another patron we would glance up long enough to watch them hop-scotch over our masterpiece and drop off something at the register. Then we were back to work.
The sheets buzzed out of the printer and we piled them together along the perimeter of the wall. There were ten copies of each page, some with articles on them, others with contests encouraging the creation of new Beanie Babies, and the occasional ad for local Beanie Baby dealers, including my neighbor, John Hendrickson, who ran a collector’s shop out of his basement. Baseball cards used to be his specialty, but with the recent country-wide fascination in stuffed armadillos and bears honoring Princess Diana, he had diverted his attention to specifically fit the needs of our target audience. In doing so, he lent our operation a certain credibility.
We folded one page into another, and released the jaws of a stapler as to aid our task of creating a solid spine for our debut issue. When we were done with binding the black and white pages, which were still warm in our hands, we proceeded to the register to pay for the $35.00 printing costs and rushed out the door.
As two children still on the cute side of awkwardness—the time before mustaches are left untamed simply because a razor is a scary grown-up toy—we knew a smile and an earnest sales pitch could go a long way. We set forth on foot. Other than occasionally roller-blading, this was how we got everywhere when we were by Michael’s house in the center of town. It was that or stealing a car. Feet could easily get us to the Ole’s convenience store to purchase candy cigarettes. And feet could just as easily take us to the Gold & Silver Exchange where our legacy would begin.
Situated on the corner of a busy intersection with two bars, a dollar store and a billboard for Casinos up ahead, the Gold & Silver Exchange was a collector’s paradise. There were guns; there were baseball cards; there were Pogs; there were action figures; and there were Beanie Babies. Only, the Beanie Babies lining the walls were in plastic cases meant to keep the toys dust free and out of the hands of those they were made for: children.
I’d been there several times before with my parents after seeing the relentless commercials on TV. But when I walked in this time, bouncing on the balls of my feet and rarely placing my heels on the ground, the entire space felt as dark as the boiler room in my basement. The windows appeared to have been tinted like all those drug dealers I saw in movies.
Our eyes adjusted to the light. Situated behind the counter was the owner, polishing a coin while he wrinkled his nose, the act of which twisted his handlebar mustache into a tango with his lips. The only business experience I had at this point was via the Lily Tomlin/Bette Midler buddy comedy “Big Business,” so I morphed my brain into the best Midler mindset I could conjure (Michael was obviously Tomlin) and formulated my attack. If I only I hadn’t left my red curly wig at home, I thought to myself. But it was no time to mope, so I grabbed an issue from beneath Michael’s arm and proceeded to the glass counter.
After a brief rundown of the product, where Michael and I swapped lines as the owner looked down at us, coin still in hand, it was clear from his eyes that silence was our friend. And if not, there were guns nearby to take care of our penchant for chatter. He reached over and picked up the Xeroxed pages, and for a moment we reveled in the image of a grown man reading “The Beanie Bulletin,” the project we had spent days storyboarding and creating between episodes of “The X-Files.” It was practically our life’s work.
Before I could process the excitement of the whole situation, the magazine was closed and back on the counter.
“Does John know about this,” he asked us.
Not exactly the reaction we were looking for.
“John. Does John Hendrickson know you’re using his name?” he asked, referring to my neighbor, the one whose daughter, Katie, was my closest neighborhood friend.
“Well, no,” I said. It was all I could manage in the midst of confusion over this being his first question when there had been valuable scoops about future products buried within Michael’s engaging layout. I hadn’t even though about getting permission. After all, we were giving John free publicity in the nation’s fastest growing Beanie Baby source.
The owner’s eyes suddenly turned angry. The same type of angry I’d seen many times before in John Hendrickson’s eyes when any of the neighborhood kids did something to upset Katie. He was one of those parents who would nurse deer back to health if they were hurt in a roadside accident, but was simultaneously capable of instilling the same type of fear in children as the bears that used to roam around our neighborhood.
“I’m going to have to call him. You’re not allowed to use him without his permission. You have his home phone number in here. You can’t put his home phone number in here.”
I saw the bear creeping down the street to get me. My eyes started to fill with tears.
Our original purpose for being there had quickly been forgotten, so we gathered the issue off the counter and inched our way out the door. I felt like my world was collapsing the moment we returned into the sunlight. John is going to eat me, I thought. As if intuiting my thoughts, Michael walked side-by-side with me and tried to comfort my sobs.
The walk back to Michael’s house was the longest ever, with the only other time even in contention being the day we arrived home three hours later than our curfew because we’d spent the entire afternoon befriending the lady working at “Dollar Deals.” At least then we had made a new friend. This time we had nothing but venom splattered on the cover of our first issue, and it was entirely my fault. Bette Midler had never warned me about getting permission to use people’s names. How could I have been so stupid?
That same question has run through my mind numerous times throughout the past year. Even though John didn’t devour me, he did request I ask his permission for future printings of the magazine (which got picked up by the local record store for several issues) and explained the logic behind such rules. The same could be said of all the press departments whose numbers have appeared on my caller ID after I acted out of the system to talk with dancers or get a photograph. I don’t know what it will take for me to finally learn. Maybe the bear should have eaten me when I was twelve, after all.
some one remembers kid pix!!
Posted by: Emily | January 24, 2009 at 06:25 PM
Oh, boy; been there, done that. Seems like your photo editors, copy editors, et al., would at least appreciate your connections. There is that dang protocol, though. It is also interesting to me that creative people tend to have so much inside of them that needs getting out, as your Beanie Baby publication did. I love this story, Matt; it's fun to watch you mature as a writer.
Posted by: A Little Tea or Something | January 25, 2009 at 07:03 PM
It's not just a matter of "protocol"; there are also issues of legality and liability if unauthorized information is published. What if publishing this John Hendrickson's home phone number led directly to a crime against him? There are good reasons why editors of magazines and other publications feel a need to protect themselves.
Posted by: Larry | January 26, 2009 at 01:57 PM
Don't worry, Larry. I'm fully aware of that now (especially in regards to something like home phone numbers). I assure you some of the problems I have had this year were more power trips than anything else. I promise I can tell the difference. That's when I have a problem with it. But it's also just a matter of getting used to a new machine, just as I was programmed to function within the ballet machine for many years...this will take time. And like I said, most everyone (dating back to John) has been very patient in explaining these matters. Only a few have really lashed out. :)
Posted by: Matthew Murphy | January 26, 2009 at 02:00 PM
"But it's also just a matter of getting used to a new machine, just as I was programmed to function within the ballet machine for many years...this will take time."
Sure. Some 20+ years ago after I left college teaching where I had virtually complete autonomy over my syllabus and classes, I remember what it was like entering the business world and getting used to becoming a (cough) "team player." Being the last person in the world to play team sports, it was a wonder I survived that first year without being thrown out on my very un-teamsmanlike ass. ;)
Posted by: Larry | January 26, 2009 at 03:04 PM