Let me tell you about my friend, Matt

If you ever read a column by Matt Tully, you probably already felt like you knew him.

He was one of those few gifted writers who never let words come between him and his readers. Instead, he used his column in The Indianapolis Star to tear down barriers -- between rich and poor, black and white, Republicans and Democrats, people who enjoyed great neighborhoods with excellent schools and those who felt trapped in their community. He was a kind man, but also one with strong opinions who wasn't afraid to express them forcefully... but never hatefully.

But as I said, if you were Matt's reader you already knew all this.

Instead I'd like to tell you about my friend, Matt, the guy I knew. If you're reading this you probably have already heard that he died yesterday at age 49 after a two-year battle with stomach cancer. An entire city mourns.

In the old Star newsroom, Matt was a jovial presence who loved to talk baseball, especially his beloved Cubs. He grew up in The Region, as those of us in Indiana call the northwestern part of our state, which in many ways belongs more to Chicago than Hoosierdom.

Matt was pretty much the first friend I made after moving to Indiana in 2005. I came here not knowing a soul, and he opened up his heart and offered friendship. Whenever he could tell I was feeling overtaxed, toiling away in the features department on the entertainment section, he would grab me by the arm and walk me over to Starbucks or somewhere else to de-stress for a few minutes. He and his wife, Val, went on a few double-dates with my then-girlfriend, Jean, and I, and invited us to their home.

We were both young, ambitious guys in our mid-30s who knew we were going places.

At the end of 2008, our paths diverged. I was let go by the Star, along with dozens of others in a seemingly never-ending stream of cost-cutting. Meanwhile, he had essentially become the face of the Star, its most recognizable talent, especially after sports maestro Bob Kravitz left a few years later. He was on his way up; I was on my way down. I spent two years freelancing and living off unemployment benefits before I found another job.

It's common for coworkers to lose touch, especially after a scenario like this. Survivor's guilt, along with the need to carry on with the important mission of journalism, tends to make it seem to those who stay that a curtain has closed on those who left.

Not Matt. He made it a point to stay in touch, getting together for occasional coffees or lunches. I texted him feedback about his latest column -- nearly always positive -- and we occasionally jawed about politics. Matt was center-left, I am center-right, I'm a Marco Rubio fan and he was dismissive of his abilities. But we never argued, and he always strove to respect a differing opinion.

When I announced to the world that I had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, Matt shared the story wider than I ever could. He asked me often about how I was doing, and offered to help out in any way he could.

We both became parents around the same time. Matt kept me updated during he and Val's struggle to have their own child, and then the arduous process of adopting one. They came close several times, only to have the adoption fall through. I could tell he was depressed and starting to give up hope of ever being a father. Then, in very short order, they found themselves parents to a beautiful baby boy.

Our sons, Joel and Reid, are just a few months apart in age. Some of my most cherished memories are of watching them play together. I still remember Joel chirping away in the back of the car after the first of many play dates together, "I think I just found a new friend!"

I moved from Broad Ripple to Carmel a few years ago, and often joshed with Matt that he would eventually follow. He laughed and demurred; they loved their neighborhood in Meridian-Kessler. Then, a couple years back, Matt and his family went north like so many Indy families do. We exchanged Carmel jokes while not-so-secretly loving life here.

I didn't see much of Matt over the last year of his illness. We kept in touch mainly through text messages. I returned his offers of help, saying we'd be happy to take Reid for a day to give him and Val some rest. But I think in his last months what he really wanted most was to be with his family, and I was happy to give him that space.

In his last column this summer, Matt promised his readers that he'd be back. It turns out he won't be returning to the pages of the Star, other than for his obituary. But in many ways, he kept his word: because he never really left. Matt Tully is the beating heart of the Star, and I think will remain so for many years to come.

But those sorts of words are best left for the official eulogy. Today, I just miss my dear friend.

Of shirts and full employment

I've been meaning to make this blog post for awhile now, but just haven't had the time. That is in a certain way a good thing, because I've been so crazy over my head with work that things like non-movie blogging tend to get shunted aside.

Although I'm ready to ramp down from the insanity of the last couple of months, being overloaded with work is better than having no work. I lost my job at the Indy Star in December 2008, and did not find another full-time job until April 2011. Things were finally going well in the months before I found my new job -- I was doing the stay-at-home Dad thing with our new baby, and had enough steady freelance work to bring in a decent income.

Then the job appeared, as suddenly and unexpectedly as the old one went away, the baby went into daycare, and I kept a large chunk of my freelance duties. The bucks are rolling in now, and I have no free time at all, but I'm proud in some way to complain about how busy I am.

A few weeks ago I found myself doing something I had not done since being laid off: Dropping shirts off at the cleaners to be washed and pressed. And it got me thinking about the little ways our lives change when jobs come and go.

I divide my wardrobe into two areas: Work clothes and casual. I have perhaps 15 decent button-up shirts that I set aside for business attire. I wash everything else at home, but the dress shirts I've always taken to the cleaners because A) I'm terrible at ironing, and B) I hate doing it to the point that I didn't even own an iron or board anymore.

It was a modest luxury, getting those beautiful crisp shirts back from the cleaners, something I spent perhaps $25 a month on. I didn't really think about the money, since I made enough for small time-savers like this. I figured, I do my own yard work and change the oil on my cars myself to save dough, so dammit, someone else can iron my shirts.

When I abruptly became unemployed, even tiny luxuries went out the window. We had managed our finances well, so there was no immediate crisis, but things we had grown accustomed to, like going out to dinner once or twice a week and having your shirts pressed, became expenditures that had to be curtailed.

So the end result was I just didn't wear my nice shirts. Sometimes I would look at them wistfully, hanging neatly on the left side of my clothes rack. Then I'd grab an old T-shirt from the right side for a day of writing and changing diapers.

Even when I started making enough freelancing that we could afford it, I resisted wearing these shirts, because then I would have to pay to have them cleaned. I suppose I could have washed them myself and endured the wrinkles. But it was more of a mental block than a rational decision.

Part of me felt I didn't deserve to wear the good shirts -- I was an unemployed bum, and nice business attire is for people who have jobs.

Again, that's not logical, but it's a symptom of the toll losing your job takes on your psyche, in ways big and small.

Anyway, I'm wearing the good shirts again, and taking them to be pressed a couple times a month. When I went back into my neighborhood cleaners for the first time, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by name, despite having not stepped foot in there for more than two years. I guess I was one of their more regular customers, who brought in steady if modest business, and they were glad to have it back.

And I'm happy to give it to them.

One year: Ruminations and recriminations

Today is my anniversary. But it's not the kind you celebrate.

One year ago today, I lost my job at The Indianapolis Star. Just writing those words seems incomprehensible to me, and I'm the one who's lived them.

I wish I could write one of those uplifting tales about keeping one's head high and using the time to explore new opportunities and learn new skills. I've tried to do all those things, but the truth is that being laid off is a pretty soul-crushing affair. The fact that I still haven't found a permanent position a year later only adds to this grim burden.

After 12 months of applying for hundreds of jobs, trolling employment sites and networking, the ugly fact is that I have had exactly two job interviews. And both of those were for low-level gigs that I probably would've been unhappy at anyway.

Given all that, you start to question yourself in ways both profound and ridiculous. You understand that with unemployment so high, employers are being inundated with applicants. Still, even applications to central Indiana newspapers haven't raised a peep of interest. The old methods of trying to establish a relationship are useless; the few news organizations that aren't cutting staff themselves broadcast dire warnings not to call or e-mail them.

Yes, I've kept busy. My wife Jean quips that I put in more hours now than when I was employed. That's likely true, but the vast majority of what I do is unpaid, or pays very little. I received a small amount of income from my film clients early this year, but one by one their freelance budgets dried up.

Around the first of February I had a choice to make: Continue to work for free in the hopes things would get better, or chuck it all. I chose to stick with it, and it's paid off: I'm getting a little bit of money now for movie and video reviews. My two Web sites have yet to produce a dollar of income, however.

Other freelance work has been sporadic, with September-October being particularly lucrative, and the time since a veritable wasteland. Still, the majority of my income comes from unemployment benefits, which will not last forever. I've already exhausted my state benefits, and am more than halfway through the federal allowance. I've been watching the news very carefully about Congress passing an extension.

I suppose I should be happier than I am. I've spent a year mostly doing what I love, writing about movies, albeit largely unpaid. Our finances are doing fine -- other than cutting back on eating out, we haven't noticed any appreciable change in our lifestyle. I have a wonderful marriage and a small but nice home. Many people are doing much worse.

Still, the skills that made me a good journalist -- and I was good ... am good ... I have to keep telling myself that -- force me to assess my situation soberly and rationally. When I do that, honesty compels me to say this year feels like lost time.

My newest freelance gig: The Indy Star

If you subscribe to the Indy Star or look at the links of my published work, you'll note a piece I have today in The Indianapolis Star. It's the cover story of GO (the Friday entertainment section) on the Heartland Film Festival.

I thought I'd point it out, and offer my thoughts on why I took the freelance job.

Given how much has gone on with the whole layoff/arbitration thing, I'm sure there are folks who consider me a massive hypocrite for accepting work from the newspaper that cut me loose. Given all the (unwarranted) attention to my donation of my settlement check from Gannett, it may seem strange to take money from the same institution.

"You haughtily refused to take their money on principle, but now you'll cash their freelance check?" is likely what some may say.

The truth is I bear no ill will against the Star as an institution. I may dislike, even detest some of the decisions they've made, particularly related to how they treat their labor force. But I still take the newspaper, I still care about the product and I have a great deal of affection and respect for the people who toil to put out a quality product.

If I can do anything to help them do that, I'm thrilled to contribute -- particularly to the "soft news" side of lifestyle and arts coverage.

As I said in my web video about the settlement check: The legal process is done. It's time to move on.

This was a high-profile freelance job on a subject in which I like to think I'm an expert. I gave no second thought to taking it, and now that I do, the feeling remains the same.

You can read the main article here and the sidebar here.

News flash: Newspapers still profitable

Alan Mutter has the scoop over at his Newsosaur site: Despite all the whining about newspapers representing the about-to-expire dinosaur of media, on average they remain one of the most profitable bets of any industry.

For 2008, the average newspaper showed just a hair under a 13 percent profit margin. That's way down from the historic highs for the industry -- profits in the 20s and 30s were not unusual in boomtimes. But contrasted with virtually every other major form of business around, it's very good. Many companies lost money last year, and even ones that were considered very successful -- such as oil companies -- had margins about half of what newspapers had.

So even though advertising revenue has plummeted with the economic downturn, and some of it has permanently migrated to the Web, the old ink-on-dead-trees model remains strong.

The problem is not cash flow, but debt. Most newspapers are owned by corporations, which have racked up huge volumes of debt in order to acquire papers or expand into online ventures that have yet to become significant revenue streams. Take the Tribune company, long considered one of the strongest chains. When Sam Zell took over in late 2007, he expanded the company's $5 billion debt load to nearly $13 billion. That was sustainable as long as the newspapers remained the cash cows they had been. But when the current recession descended, bankruptcy became inevitable.

Even Gannett, which has not been leveraged as heavily as some other chains, is now facing huge debt repayments in the next couple of years. So they're forced to cut and cut.

The Indianapolis Star has been through a buyout and (by my count) three rounds of layoffs in the last three years, and is doing another major cutback this week. Word flying around is that the Star is going to take a 100-person hit, with probably 30 to 40 percent of that coming from the newsroom. That would leave the news gathering force at around 140-150 people, down from around 260 when I joined the paper in June 2005. This despite a recent estimate published in the Indianapolis Business Journal that the Star is still pulling in around a 15 percent profit margin.

Newsroom employees are like Boxer, the loyal and hard-working horse from George Orwell's "Animal Farm." They pull more than their fair load, but it's never enough for the indifferent and/or self-serving bureaucrats who run the show. Then they're sent off to the slaughterhouse -- or rather the unemployment line, which in this economy is nearly the same thing.