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A Tour of the Mill
Take A Look Around
It’s almost the start of the 2018 Season. Soon we will begin publishing dreck in earnest. It occurred to me that given the churn here on Medium, many of the people currently haunting my “New From Your Network” feed are relatively new. There’s a good chance that what I report about the goings on at Mr. Mildew Omnimedia will make no sense to our Medium younglings. In order to help them understand my narcissistic ramblings, this deep dreck you now are faced with, I thought I would reprint an article recently written for the newsletter of the Mushamaguntic Chamber of Commerce. It appeared in April.
A Visit To Mr. Mildew Omnimedia
Reminder: Next month we will tour the Indonesian bakery, Balanda Bagel, on Water Street
April 16, 2018 Newsletter Staff
This past Saturday, three organizations; the Mushamaguntic Chamber of Commerce, the Niantic Historical Society, and Wolf Pack #5 ,were treated to a tour of the Gray Sisters’ Office Park, which is affectionately referred to as “The Mill” by locals. Our Guide was none other than J.H. Gutbloom, Managing Editor of Mr. Mildew Omnimedia, the local business that used to publish our Friday evening broadsheet, The Weekend Standard, and currently publishes ad driven specialty “books” such as “Swim Fins and Football Helmets”, “Cat Obsession”, “Hoarder’s Millions”, and “This Old Egg House.”
The group assembled on the front lawn by the Old Building. Gutbloom could be seen down by the water’s edge throwing sticks to his dog. Wearing a jacket, tie, and bowler hat, just as he does in his picture, he motioned for us to join him when he saw the gathering on the lawn. Before the whole group was within earshot he began pontificating.
“It’s important that you folks see this,” he said pointing to the swamp in front of him, “This body of water here, which we call ‘The Athenaeum’, is a backwater of the Medium River. A real backwater. You can see that the river flows out to the sea over there. Sometimes bigwig writers sail their boats down the river and out to sea. I’ve seen John Krakauer and Bret Easton Ellis sail by here. This is the route that Abby Norman and Kimberly Harrington took down to New York City. Technically, what you are looking at is an estuary, but the word “estuary” sounds like a female medical problem, so we usually just refer to it as ‘Lou’s Lagoon’.”
A woman from the Chamber of Commerce asked if The Athenaeum was “brackish.”
“No,” replied Gutbloom, “It’s pretty white, though sometimes we get a lot of cormorants. Do they count?” He looked like he was going to say something more but stopped.
“I guess we should start the tour,” he said. “Over there,” he pointed to a low white building, “is the canning factory. We used to can kippers, sardines, and tuna. Now we just scrape the bottom of the ocean and grind it all into dog food. I’m not proud of it, but you got to pay the bills somehow.”
“What about the Medium Partner’s program?” A woman from the Historical Society asked.
“No,” Gutbloom replied, “Unfortunately that won’t work for us, Dreck wants to be free.”
Continuing to point with what appeared to be a smoke stained index finger, the Mayor continued, “Attached to the Canning Factory is the Cranberry House Dormitory, the Casino, and the Canteen. In the Canteen we have three skeeball lanes, a pool table, a coffee dispenser, and the last cigarette vending machine in the Northern United States. We have Bingo on Thursday nights, boxing matches on Fridays, and pig races on the holidays.
The chow at the Canteen is pretty good right now, but that can change. We adhere to the logging camp custom that if someone complains about the food, they become the cook. A guy named Pepe, now called “Cookie”, is currently the chef. The Canteen only serves dinner. Breakfast and lunch are served at the Refectory in the Old Building. At most meals you can get a meat and three for four dollars. The specials are Shepard’s Pie on Tuesdays, Meat Loaf on Thursdays, Chowder on Fridays, and Boston Supper on Saturday night. On Sundays and Mondays we eat eggs.
Everyone who works in the Canning Factory or in “distribution” gets a bunk in the Cranberry House and three meals a day. People in editorial only get breakfast and dinner and have to rent their bunk. Members of the art department get three meals a day but aren’t allowed to sleep on the property, even in a tent or camper. Nobody on the business side is allowed in the Casino. That’s the fire wall between church and state. People in Buildings & Grounds, Maintenance, and the librarians can go wherever they want.”
The children in Wolf Pack #5, who were decked out in khaki coveralls with patches stitched up and down their sleeves, got very excited at the mention of skeeball.
“Would the coyote pack like to go play Defender and Galaxian in the Canteen instead of touring the editorial complex?” Gutbloom asked.
The children all howled.
“Well, the Swede is down at the Canteen and he can open the Casino for you. Here are some slugs that will work in the pool table.”
The children all ran down the hill toward the Canning Factory.
“Good,” said Gutbloom once they were out of earshot. “Now we can talk about bull fights, the Infirmary, and our world class collection of fuck books.”
Some of the members of the Historical Society grimaced.
“I was kidding about Infirmary. We don’t have an Infirmary anymore. We had to promise to close it as part of the Medicare fraud case settlement, but Dr. Sick and Dr. Feelgood still have a cabin above the Sheep’s Meadow if any of you need “medicine.”
“Let’s see, what else,” he continued, “That building down by the dock is the Oakum Shed. The boat at the dock is named “The Esmerelda.” The sign over there reads ‘It’s Not Gay If You’re Away, It’s Only Queer If You’re On the Pier.’ It really should be taken down, but the guy who made it spent a long time varnishing the wood and went to great trouble tying all those letters out of sailor knots. He keeps hoping that Fleet Week will come back. He would be heartbroken if we took it down.
That area over there is called “The Dell.” That’s where we hold the comedy and tragedy competitions in the Spring and sometimes put up a Maypole. Over there, next to the Elephant Tree, is the piñata court. Lon Shapiro is our current champion and pro. He is available for private lessons. During the summer he holds a “Piñata Clinic” and a “Piñata Camp”. I’m not really sure of the difference between the two, but make sure you get the price before you sign up because whichever one you sign up for usually turns out to be the more expensive one.
The Rose Garden doesn’t have any roses in it, and those greenhouses are just for propagating milkweed. If we are lucky Persephone will come out of the sub-basement sometime soon. The snow is almost gone, so it shouldn’t be long now.”
The Devil’s Platform
One of the members of the Historical Society, an elderly gentleman with a white beard and glasses, asked if they could see the “Devil’s Platform”. Gutbloom obliged, leading the party down towards the dock and along the water’s edge. There stood a structure that looked like a small stage made out of wide barn boards.
“This is the so called ‘Devil’s Platform’, though obviously not the original structure. According to local legend, this is where they used to burn witches. It’s also the place where… again supposedly… slave auctions were held. After that it was the site of a bear baiting pit, and when bears became scarce, it’s where we held rat baiting contests with both dogs and sailors. This is where the Fox Terrier “Prince William” from Jersey City, New Jersey killed 100 rats in two minutes. Most recently it’s the place where we like to boil lobsters. Given the tortured history of the site, we thought that we might erect a statue of a Confederate general. My understanding is that we might be able to get one cheap right now.”
The elderly gentleman from the Historical Society then asked, “Is the site presently used for anything?”
“This is where we sit when we watch NFL games on the iPad. To watch the NFL, we have to steal a Direct TV signal, and it turns out this is the only spot where we can get the satellite feed.”
The Start of Spring
The group then followed Gutbloom up to the Old Building. His dog did not follow, even though he called the small chocolate lab a number of times. His repeated cries of “here, Woofer!” had no effect.
We approached the Old Building from the water side, which is a story lower than the front. Standing before the basement door, Gutbloom was about to begin speaking when a bulkhead near us was thrown open and a young woman wearing dungarees and a tan barn jacket emerged from below.
“The aforementioned Percy, folks. What good fortune that you should be here to welcome the emergence of our semi-divine landscaper.”
The dog ran to the woman, and she greeted it by saying, “Hey, Aggie.” Then she turned to the crowd and said, “I know it’s probably too late for this, but try to stay off the lawns and gardens, even if he leads you directly through them.” She then walked away, the dog following her.
The Old Building
Gutbloom addressed the crowd, as he had intended before the bulkhead opened.
“This building, the Old Building, was the White Mill, which made blue serge. The spinning mules are still on the top floor. Before that it was the Slater Mill that spun cotton thread. It was also used as a warehouse for molasses.
We run the publishing arm like a fishing boat, so the biggest, meanest people do the least amount of work. The basement and sub-basement are below deck, while the upper floors are considered above deck. Since the risk of fire is considerable, the most dangerous spot in the building is the top floor, which is why we put the art department and auditors up there.
If you are familiar with fishing boats, the south side of the building, facing the water, is before the mast, and towards the front lawn is aft. I am the captain of this ship, but you have to think ‘Captain like George Pollard or Captain Stubing, rather than Wolf Larsen or Ahab.’”
Gubloom then opened the door to the basement. Inside was a print shop, with several presses standing in a large room with a concrete floor. In the corner were two men at a small table playing pinocle.
“These are the Heidelberg presses. We only use them to print checks and greeting cards nowadays, but even that business has kind of dried up. About once a week someone from a coffee shop contacts us and asks us if they can buy the lead type from the older presses. I think they want to spell out “cappuccino” or something because they are more interested in the letter “c” than anything else. They also seem to want ampersands. Semicolons; not so much.”
A member from the Chamber of Commerce pointed to the men in the corner and asked, “Who are they?”
“Those are the pressmen. You can tell by their blue Dickey uniforms.”
“I thought you said that the presses don’t have much work anymore.” Someone said.
Gutbloom looked perplexed. “Do they not have unions where you come from?”
He continued, “Below us is the sub-basement. We won’t go there because it is dangerous. Instead we will go upstairs. Remember when I said ‘the meanest people do the least amount of work.’ Those would be the guys in the morgue. The “morgue” is where we keep the archive of clips, photographs, and illustrations that once ran in our publications. Most of it is rendered obsolete by the Internet, but those guys are still down there.
Now, I know when I say ‘morgue’, some of you think, ‘Is that where they keep the writing of the old LiveJournal authors like Spoonfeeding or Larrondo and the new writing of people who have left Medium like T. J. O’Neil, Kel Campbell, That Crow Guy, Thin Man, and Why You Dirty Old Queer ?’ The answer is ‘yes’, but if you want to see any of it, you are going to have to put on your big boy pants and walk down there yourselves.
The group was then led up a set of wooden stairs to the first floor.
“The first floor is the nicest part of the building and the safest in a fire, so it’s where the advertising, accounting, and publisher’s offices are. I can lead you through, but you can’t touch anything. Especially not the snacks or flowers.”
The group was lead through some clean white hallways decorated with sconces containing fresh flowers. There were glass fronted offices to the right and left, and on the landing before the stairs to the second floor was a table with a gingham table cloth. On it sat a basket filled with home made “energy bars” wrapped in butcher paper and pink ribbon. There was a sign on the table that said “Eat Me” in Edwardian script.
Editorial
“This is the second floor, which houses editorial and the Refrectory. We are now standing in the News Room.”
The room was large, windowless, and all of the furniture was covered in white sheets. It looked like there had been a lot of mouse activity over the winter. There were big brown stains on the ceiling, and the floor was littered with dead wasps and ladybugs.
“I take it you will get this set up for the season sometime soon,” said someone from the Chamber of Commerce.
“Actually…. no,” said Gutbloom, “This room has looked like this for at least five years. We offboarded editorial almost a decade ago. First we canned the copy editors, then the stringers, then the critics, then the pundits, and when it came time to can the bigfeet, there was nobody to complain.
We get most of our content by stealing from the Chinese. That’s why I think Trump should have made me a trade representative. Most English speaking companies have their intellectual property stolen by the Chinese. We, on the other hand, steal from them.”
“What’s under that?” Someone from the Historical Society asked, pointing to a large sheet covering a machine in the corner.
“That’s the AM Varityper machine, next to it is an ATEX terminal. This right here,” he said as he pulled off a sheet that revealed a horseshoe shaped table, is where a slot editor once sat. They would sit in the center and the writers would come up and hand them copy. That’s why there are stains on the ceiling.” He looked up and pointed to a big, brown circle directly above the table. “Those are from pipe smoke.”
“While it looks like nobody works in editorial, that’s not true. We do have some ‘bloggers’ that keep our websites going, and a “troll factory” that split their time between the Yahoo and Fox news boards, and we frequently hire English majors from the Normal School to come down and write listicles like “12 Things Not to Do at a Rehearsal Dinner” that we use to fill out our magazines.
Those over there are the coffee urns. Coffee, like dreck, wants to be free. Just make sure you don’t drink the coffee on Wednesday nights.”
Gutbloom then stopped, and noticing the fatigue on the faces of a large number in our group asked:
“Do you want to see my office and the Refectory, or are you folks kind of done?”
There was a lot of silence until someone from the Historical Society said, “Well, it was only supposed to be a twenty minute tour and we really should be checking on the Wolf Pack.”
“So you don’t want to see the IT or Art Departments?”
“No”, said a person from the Chamber of Commerce, rather emphatically.
“What about the library? You guys haven’t even seen the collection of fuck books yet.”
“We’re done,” said two or three people simultaneously.
As the group made its way out of the building and onto the parking lot, one woman stopped to ask Gutbloom a question that she seemed to have been considering for a while.
“What I don’t understand, Mr. Gutbloom, is why you’re in charge here? It seems like a very nice job, being in charge of a place like this that doesn’t need to make money, and you strike me as someone who is singularly incompetent and wholly underserving of the exalted position that you now hold. What character trait do you posses that can account for you being affording such an opportunity?”
“It’s quite easily explained,” said Gutbloom breaking into a wide smile, “You see, the Gray sisters are autocrats. They run all of their enterprises for peculiar and largely narcissistic reasons. They keep us around because they like to say that they are ‘publishers’ that own a ‘media company.’ What they demand from me is loyalty and subservience. They make Donald Trump look like a Six Sigma blackbelt. My incompetence doesn’t bother them at all.”
“Because you’re a yesman.” Said the woman.
“Much more than that,” said Gutbloom. “I’m a lickspittle. There is no amount of obsequiousness I won’t stoop to when in the presence of those two ladies.”
“I guess that explains it.”
The group then departed, leaving Gutbloom alone in the parking lot still pocked with unyielding snowbanks. As the cars pulled away he could be seen lighting a cigarette and looking for his dog.
[NB: I inadvertently published a unfinished draft of this story on Wednesday. Since there seems to be no way to “unpublish” something, I deleted that draft and pasted the copy into a new story. I think anna breslin was the only person to read it, but if anyone commented or clapped, I’m sorry that your INTERACTIVITY was deleted. This has never happened to me before, mostly because I have never written something and then waited to publish it. I usually hit publish while I am writing a piece, and then fix the errors while reading in bed (after screaming “shit!” loud enough to wake the Boss). I like to be quick on the publish button because that’s the way the soul blogger rolls, brah… and brahettes… and non binary brahxes.]
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