What you may not have known? That is this actually the mid-point of what’s looking like a full-scale Phoenix firesale.
Just last week, Phoenix quietly sold off El Planeta, after having already closed out their telepersonals and mobile text platforms.
The Dig’s sympathies go out to the staff, for whom we have the utmost respect. Way to fuck up a good thing, Stevie.
Shortly afterward, we received this anonymous letter, reprinted in its entirety below. All the info checks out, and coupled with this morning’s announcement, this could be the Phoenix‘s tailspin.
Some little tidbits from Phoenix that you may find interesting. For a company with so many Vice Presidents and Directors you would think all those huge mushy brains could steer a relatively small company away from some big fucking rocks. Negative on that…
In the last two months the slave drivers at PMCG have closed operation for TPI (telepersonals) and canned the staff, sold G8wave (mobile text platforms) and canned the staff (except Brad Mindich’s wife, Rachael) and, just this week, sold El Planeta (bi-lingual newspaper) and guess what … canned even more staff.
Another promising sign of PMCG’s future is that after 25+ years at 126 Brookline ave, Phoenix is moving from one shithole office to a much smaller shithole office at 61 north Beacon. Despite the fact that the buildout is underway, Stephen Mindich said in his company wide email that “we have not currently chosen our new home.” Why would Mindich lie to his own company about something so trivial? Who fucking cares- call it force of habit I suppose. The hilarity lies in the fact that half of the company already knew the new location and closed the email with cumulative roll of the eyes. Way to be “in touch” with your staff, ‘lil Stevie. No word on whether or not the paper will now be called the Allston Phoenix but we doubt it because that would be uncharacteristically honest for PMCG.
The remaining staff also hopes that when the Mindich’s do decide to pull up in their matching Porches and stroll through their private entrances at 10am to subject those (who haven’t already fled or been unceremoniously canned) to longer hours, further pay cuts, and even less adequate tools to work with, and do it with a big fucking smile (“because it’s a goddamn privilege to work here, bitch”), that they at least pretend to give a shit and do the wet-work themselves instead of via email, sent from the smoke-filled back office of dear leader or his absentee son … via text from his Harley … in Florida … on a Wednesday, again.
Half of the remaining non-management staff work second or even third jobs to get by and they need to be forewarned. When management quietly close their doors and gives the “nothing to see here, folks” attitude when these big fucking rocks are not looming but … ummmm, here. You can’t help but wonder if, behind those closed doors, they’re putting the finishing touches on their resumes … and if they are, they’re doing it faster than you, asshole.
“Went the way of the dinosaur because it was run by dinosaurs.”