The Scene and I have a notoriously rocky relationship. That's obviously true. I've sent at least two of their writers into fits of tears, or so I've been told by a grapevine that includes one of the writers' mothers and Wayne Christenson. When I first moved to town at 21, I thought the Scene was the paper for those like me. People who bought their clothes at thrift stores, hung out in used bookshops and bummed around Mosko's until their 4:30 shift started. The Scene was boho goodness in a city that was either country music-mad or Old South Cheekwood Swan Ball Elitist. The Scene was supposed to be the niche for artsy will-think-for-food types.
I guess somewhere we parted ways. Maybe it was when I realised that no bisexual men, fortune tellers or washed up soap opera actors would pay me lots of money to advertise their services. The Scene got those gigs. I actually think it was right about the time I was looking through an issue in early May and saw an advertisement for the Mother's Day Brunch at F. Scott's. I don't know about you, but people in my social circle--the boho group--don't do a lot of meals at F.Scott's. That was when I cottoned on to the Scene's hipper/richer/better-than-you vibe. I don't really need that Cousin's Christmas Letter grief from a paper whose chief use to me is as a lister of movie showtimes.
By now, you've probably heard all about the too cool for school Scene contributer slagging off a McDonald's employee for offending her delicate sensibilities. This brings the creeping fog of Scene Elitism to a whole new level, and proves that it doesn't take a lot of cash to be cruelly elitist in your attitudes. I don't know how much she's pulling down as a Scene writer, but I don't think it's enough to buy her out of the miasma of grief occupied by most of the working poor. Unless you're King, Rowling or Joel Osteen neither writing nor self-righteousness pays a whole heck of a lot. [Especially when your writing is so inaccurate as to confuse "nearing" with "surpassing"]
In the comments over at Pith, Tracy talks about her various slag jobs slinging greasy food and porn for pervs. Her life has been no piece of cake, apparently. This would seem to not only give her license to be ticked off about a McDonald's employee's personal opinion that had nothing to do with the quality or edibility of the food Tracy bought without any gun to her head whatsoever, but to call the poor woman's boss, the woman's boss' boss and write about it on the Internet. There are two kinds of power in America. The power that comes with money and the power that comes with the ability to have your speech heard. Often the two go hand in hand. It's also one of the reasons the Scene has a grudge match with bloggers. We encroach ever so steadily on their power base. So no, Tracy doesn't have the power of great wealth, but she does have the power of the press. Today she used that power to beat a woman into submission. What fun!
Of course this whole problem could be solved if Tracy would get over her inner guilt about the dangers of her smoking habit.