Some would say "it" is just one of the perks of being a journalist. "It" is so commonplace, few question the ethics of "it" any longer.

CBS News' Bob Schieffer does "it" quite openly and his colleagues in the media applaud. Literally.  Most other journalists are more discreet, but no less guilty.

A recent example is Julie Bain, who writes on health for Reader's Digest.  While traveling with her mom not long ago, Julie became worried after her mother complained repeatedly of leg pain.

"Being a health journalist with lots of medical knowledge (although no clinical training), I was worried that she might have developed deep vein thrombosis (DVT), a blood clot in the leg that can block blood flow and cause pain," Julie writes in a September Readers Digest blog post.

 Is it acceptable for financial journalists to take their children to special screenings of soon-to-be-released films, when those children don't have a byline and could never get in if mom or pop weren't a journalist?

Worried, Julie did what any concerned family member might well do, she picked up the phone and called DVT expert Geoffrey Westrich, MD, an orthopedic surgeon at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York City, who has published more than 20 studies on DVT prevention.  The good doctor reassured her that mom was ailing with shingles, not DVT.

Would Dr. Westrich have taken Julie's call if Julie were not an influential health journalist?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.

When Bob Schieffer took the stage earlier this week at the Grand Ole Opry and sang to an appreciative, invitation-only crowd comprised of many journalists in town to cover the Presidential debate, he fulfilled a long-held dream.

"Can I say something I've wanted to say all my life?" Schieffer asked the receptive crowd.  "I'm Bob Schieffer, and I'm proud to be on the Grand Ole Opry!"

Schieffer's performance, sandwiched between country and western stars Trisha Yearwood and Brad Paisley, is an experience that I'm certain many tens of thousands of other Americans would also enjoy.  But they aren't journalists, so they might as well forget it.

Does being a journalist imbue one with the right to accept what is offered strictly by dint of one's chosen profession?  Schieffer was not at the Grand Ole Opry to report a first-person story on singing there.  He is, after all, not CBS's music correspondent.

No, Schieffer used his journalism renown to buy himself an experience with a currency not available to the bulk of his viewers.

Was it okay for Schieffer to accept the invitation to perform when it has nothing to do with his editorial duties, but everything to do with the stature his job affords him?  Is it okay for a restaurant reviewer to use her position to get a hard-to-get table, when she has no plans to review the restaurant?  Is it acceptable for financial journalists to take their children to special screenings of soon-to-be-released films, when those children don't have a byline and could never get in if mom or pop weren't a journalist?

A number of years back, Gina Boyd, a reporter working for me, interviewed Robert Thomson, now managing editor of The Wall Street Journal.  At the time, Robert was the U.S. managing editor of The Financial Times and seen frequently on national television.

Gina asked him if all the television exposure and recognition ever goes to his head.  Robert replied: "I think you have to be careful.  One of the things you learn in Australia is to take the piss out of yourself.  You have to be self-effacing.  Or otherwise, you lose your way.  And if you don't have your bearings, in whatever you do, you won't do it well."

Well, I don't know whether Bob Schieffer, Julia Bain, and hundreds like them have failed to take the piss out of themselves or not.  

But I do know that journalists, as a bunch, are not held in the high and noble esteem that they should be, and I believe one of the reasons is that they mistake the importance of their jobs for self importance.

"It" means accepting any perk, no matter how trivial or lacking in pecuniary value, that is offered to you that wouldn't be offered just as willingly to the lowliest of your viewers or readers.

I do not ascribe good motives to anyone who facilitates the wishes of a journalist, unless those needs are clearly and openly related to the immediate performance of that journalist's job.  

Medill's Richard Hainey

At best, such facilitators are suck ups.  At worst, they are dolling out well-disguised bribes for which they expect to collect at a future date.  And any journalist who accepts is a co-conspirator.

One of my journalism school professors and mentors, the late Richard Hainey, used to lecture us at Northwestern University about being seduced by journalism's perks and privileges.  Like Robert Thomson, he warned us in sometimes colorful language about those who might dangle goodies in front of us, be they gifts, meals or experiences unavailable to others.

Professor Hainey might have liked to sing at the Grand Ole Opry (though I doubt it) or to harvest the best medical minds anytime a family member took ill.  But he never would have done it.

No.  In his best inimical editor's voice, Professor Hainey would have told anyone who offered him a chance to sing along with Trisha and Brad exactly where they should shove "it."  Would that more journalists follow suit!

Being nice doesn't work.  Being honest is only rewarded, if you say something that is honestly shocking.  Asking for fairness is silly.  Behaving the way you'd like your competition to behave may get you into heaven, but it won't get you on television.

These are just a few of the many public relations insights I've garnered by observing the profession for more than 20 years.  Here are some more that have been in my view of late....

On a scale of 1-10, with five being the  truth as you see it and each integer up being the truth "magnified" exponentially, then those who get the most media coverage pitch journalists stories that are 9s and 10s.  They don't lie.  They just lead with their strongest argument and then magnify it until the media can't ignore it.

When CEOs and PR people tell me "the story" they wish to get press coverage for, I can pretty quickly map for them where the 9s and 10s of their particular tale lie.  The visceral reaction I usually get is, "but that is such a simplification" or "that's a gross exaggeration."  Exactly.  Fives don't get noticed.  Tens do.

Here is the formula: Find a message.  Your message.  Trim it to its core.  Your core.  Then re-inflate it until it moves from a 5 to a 10.  That is, if you want publicity. 

Lots of CEOS and PR people think they want publicity, but they want it on their terms.  Won't happen.  The media have too much to do to bother with stories that can't rise to the top of newsworthy scale.  If you won't make your story exciting, reporters and editors certainly won't do it for you.

I really don't know if there is such a thing as 'absolute truth.'  But I can tell you this: Those individuals who play by the rules of media relations lose or lose almost always.  To win, you have to be willing to play the media relations game the way it really works.  Not how you wish it worked.

It's a businessman's fantasy: Sexy model Diana Dondoe clad only in recent editions of The Wall Street Journal that have been contoured to fit her sumptuous figure by none other than fashion bad-boy designer Roland Mouret.

WHO ARE THEY: Strangers on a Plane, Faces in a Crowd, The Driver in the Rear-View Mirror?

I suppose that living in Los Angeles, I should expect to have that periodic encounter with a genuine celebrity.  Yet each time I do, I'm wowed by the convergence of circumstances that must take place in order to put me and some famous entertainer, business leader or politician in the exact same location at the exact same time.

Yesterday my wife and I were running late, rushing to an appointment in a multi-story Beverly Hills office building located a brief stroll from Rodeo Drive.  We both boarded an elevator only to realize we didn't know what floor our meeting was on, so we made a hasty exit to consult the building directory.

Scurrying into the next elevator we joined a single occupant, standing along the back wall at the far left, humming to himself.  "We've seen a few of your movies," I said casually, trying to distance myself from the ordinary star-struck fan.  "Our whole family is a big fan."

This is true. 

A Chance Encounter: Will and Talya

A year earlier, I, my wife and our two kids made a day of it standing in line and waiting endlessly as movie extras, just so we could watch Will Ferrell film Semi-Pro in a mock stadium constructed near Chavez Ravine, not far from where the Los Angeles Dodgers play baseball.  At the time, the closest we got to Ferrell was row 135A.

Now we are standing alone with the movie star and Saturday Night Live alum in a closed elevator. He is my captive audience.  At least for another 15-30 seconds until the elevator deposits him on the next floor. (We got off with him and he kindly and warmly agreed to pose for a picture with my wife.)


Coincidentally, it's not been a week since my kids and I were standing in the checkout line at a Malibu coffee shop and I glanced over to recognize a very pregnant Minnie Driver paying for her order in the adjoining line.  Like Will -- (having shared that elevator moment I'm now on a first-name basis with him) -- Minnie seemingly went unrecognized by others.  Either that, or the Malibu crowd was just too cool (jaded?) to acknowledge her.

The paparazzi were so focused here...	...they missed Minnie and her pooch

As we watched Minnie leave the shop and recover her dog -- which had waited obediently outdoors for her return, we found it funny that 100 yards away a swarm of paparazzi were waiting to catch a glimpse of some lesser-light models who were doing a promotional gig for some cosmetic or fashion designer.  They were oblivious to Minnie, who wasn't wearing makeup and was quite unplugged from the usual celebrity trappings.

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By Maxwell Rotbart

I am a 21st century blogger who recently searched for my name on Google to see how many results show up.

A modest four websites mention me. I then entered the name Walter Tittle, a virtuoso from the first half of the 20th century who is not very well known today. (He is so little known that I was able to purchase www.waltertittle.com for six dollars and eighty-five cents, before fees.) Much to my astonishment, his name appears on 4,370 websites picked up by Google. Not bad for a man who died well before Al Gore invented the Internet.


I first stumbled upon Tittle's name after reading an article (Personalities in a Parisian Salon: More Portraits in Pencil and Pen) that he wrote in 1925 for Century Magazine. In the article, Tittle speaks of the different social graces among the "Anglos" and all other cultures (namely the French). I was fascinated by how vividly he depicts the streets of Paris.

At one point, Tittle describes the Marquis de Castellane, a guest at a Parisian party, in the following terms:

"He is still quite handsome, with his patrician cast of features and exceedingly erect carriage; his salient chest suggests military training, and his blond hair is still worn high, though time has thinned it considerably.

He was clad in light tweeds, with white boutonnikre and kerchief in evidence, the note being repeated by white spats, which he always wears. He had a bulldog in leash, smart with its curious clown-like ruff of heavy leather trimmed with monkey fur, and the frantic greetings between it and Mme. Carolus-Duran's dog, one of the same litter, stopped all conversation temporarily and threatened the physical equilibrium of guests and furniture alike."

And yet, despite Tittle's artistic and unique compositions, he is best remembered by the sketches and portraits he drew.

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I would like to be the heavenly correspondent who witnessed Leona Helmsley when she went to meet her maker last year, at the age of 87.

Writing a stock market column for the Monday edition of a business newspaper always requires a certain amount of creative imagination.  A journalist can't really report on what happened during the previous (Friday) trading session -- that's old news -- and how much can one freshly forecast about the upcoming Monday morning trading session?  By the time most readers crack open their Monday morning financial dailies, the markets will have rendered moot any forecasts anyway.

"Given the performance of these investments so far, how much worse does it have to get before pension trustees and university endowments and the top-tier private-equity firms they back ask whether it makes sense to keep doing this?" Richardson asks.  "How long before rich overseas funds stop giving cash to Wall Street firms that lose their money?"

Memo:  Roger Ailes, Fox Business News and Mark Hoffman, CNBC

At a used book store the other day I picked up a hardbound copy of The Century Magazine from 1925 and found within it a wealth of early 20th century journalism -- most of it lost to the dusty stacks of libraries and their microfiche rooms.

H.C. Chatfield-Taylor in 1897

One article that was too good to let lie in obscurity was When the World Came to Chicago, a reminiscence by Hobart C. Chatfield-Taylor of his time spent as a host of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition held in Chicago.  The great fair drew 27 million visitors, including some real characters who Chatfield-Taylor saw up close.

Anyone who loves Chicago and especially anyone who loves its rich literary and art history, really will enjoy reading this 83-year-old feature.  It includes mentions as well of local and national politicians, doyennes, and actors.

I was particularly struck by the timelessness of a letter that Chatfield-Taylor quoted written to him in 1891 by Eugene Field, the essayist and children's author.  Field, after whom many public schools in Illinois and Missouri have been named, served as editor of the defunct Denver Tribune for two years.

"If you intend to follow writing as a profession, you must cultivate your skin until it becomes hide - the hide of a pachyderm," Field told Chatfield-Taylor.  "I believe it is better to be antagonized than to be patronized.  Go right along doing the best work of which you are capable and you are bound to succeed in spite of the ill will of some people.  There are in the midst of us many who, incapable of ambitious endeavor, themselves,  envy and hate those who do try to do somewhat and to be somebody.  Do not let these creatures worry you.  After a while they will be only too glad to fawn upon you."

Sadly, Field died in November 1895 at the age of 44 and Chatfield-Taylor served as one of his pallbearers.
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Hurray for  former Senator Robert Dole, who  doesn't mince words in his email (below) to  former  First Spokesman,  Scott McClellan.

===============

Scott,

There are miserable creatures like you in every administration who don't have the guts to speak up or quit if there are disagreements with the boss or colleagues. No, your type soaks up the benefits of power, revels in the limelight for years, then quits, and spurred on by greed, cashes in with a scathing critique.

In my nearly 36 years of public service I've known of a few like you. No doubt you will "clean up" as the liberal anti-Bush press will promote your belated concerns with wild enthusiasm. When the money starts rolling in you should donate it to a worthy cause, something like, "Biting The Hand That Fed Me." Another thought is to weasel your way back into the White House if a Democrat is elected. That would provide a good set up for a second book deal in a few years.

I have no intention of reading your "exposé" because if all these awful things were happening, and perhaps some may have been, you should have spoken up publicly like a man, or quit your cushy, high profile job. That would have taken integrity and courage but then you would have had credibility and your complaints could have been aired objectively. You're a hot ticket now but don't you, deep down, feel like a total ingrate?

BOB DOLE