Memoirs of a Geezer!
Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: Newspaper Chronicles -- The Many Labors of a Young Reporter!
The roadway was impossibly dark and twisted. Headlamps reflected blazing green-eyed beasts at every turn, causing electric shocks of panic and frenzied braking. Once even a specter, bald and wrinkled, walking in the middle of the endless blacktop. Each a brief slap of awakening from dangerous exhaustion. Monolithic sentries cast their stony glances of disapproval on the lone traveler. Or were they being protective, eyes intent and guiding? Seeing, at last, a turnoff, I pulled over and slept. Some hours later, a brilliant rising sun re-ignited the odyssey, and I moved on, obsessively eager to reach a destination both frightening and alluring.
"Can you start today?" Ferd Fozzlefinger asked.
"You mean like right now?
"Yes, today, right now. Can you do it?" Ferd asked with emphasis.
"Sure. I guess so."
"Good," said Ferd, "You're hired."
"Where's the rest of the staff?" I inquired.
"You're it," said Ferd. "Well, naturally we have our typesetter and graphic artist, Gimel Sneedby. You'll like him. He's good, real professional. Also too, you'll be editor and head writer of The Big Bugle, a Legion Post newspaper. I own that one also too." (I enjoyed "total staff" status on that one "also too"!)
I met Gimel in the typesetting and reporting office. Ferd showed me to a small desk, and I had my first real newspaper job. Ferd provided a set of verbal instructions, including how to cover my daily beat, whom to call upon for advertising revenue, a listing of advertising prospects, addresses and directions for the local police department, fire house, municipal offices,
area elementary and high schools, snitches, neighborhood people he termed "sources for anything of importance that's going on in our portion of the region." So much to learn, so quickly. I frowned purposely for dramatic effect, making sure my eyebrows were contorted with anxiety, my forehead a plowed field!
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| Young reporters must always keep eyes wide open for big doings and scoops (free ice cream and important breaking news!) |
"Don't worry," said Ferd. "I'll be with you every step of the way." I never saw him again. Gimel and I -- he told me to call him "Gibby" -- became an effective team, collaborators, even great pals. He operated a kind of photo-headline-making machine, a typesetting device that created neat columns of newsprint and something flat that whirred quietly and applied adhesive to strips of newsprint. I was enthralled. Page templates, chart packs, adhesive dingbats and black lines, "Press-Type" and sharp little picks with protective corks for placing graphic elements on the page. This was newspaper compositor technology at its zenith!
We did everything, just the two of us, to produce fine weekly editions of The Southwest Gawker Talker. Eventually I established a beat, discovered news sources; I acquired some advertising contracts, got to know a police sergeant who became my primary source for crime news, an assistant fire chief, grocers, school officials, a pharmacist, city personnel, backyard gossips, a plumber, malcontents, neighborhood politicos, a guy who chased stray dogs and cats and told me he once roped a coyote in an urban public park. And, of course, "Guttural Gus," my personal "rat-stoolie" who somehow collected vast material on sexual peccadilloes and nefarious tittle-tattle. (More about "Gus" in a future edition, perhaps!)
After a period of time had passed, I asked Gibby, "I mean, is there compensation involved with these fine career positions of ours? Are there, like, paydays?"
"Hey, don't worry," said Gibby. " 'Ferdy the Finger' -- that's our pet name for the boss -- sends checks to the office. He's not real consistent, but we get paid, ya know, like kind of regularly."
"When?" I asked
"Lemme see... I think we can expect some pay, well, something like next Wednesday," said Gibby. "I'll make a note to call 'The Finger.' He listens to me when I threaten to walk out. I'll threaten for you too!"
"Good," I said. "My room is small and cheap, but the landlady expects rent occasionally. And food," I continued. "I find that I must eat occasionally too." Gibby thought this amusing. He chuckled, raised a hand to his face and smeared his mouth with printer's ink.
Dear Auntie Muriel... I don't do work, you see. It's an agreement my lady friend of 12 years and I have. She likes to work. I distain work; I find it demeaning and undignified, and I have gout, I think. I'd like to marry the woman, my dear lady friend of 12 years, but I worry she's a bit flighty and can't seem to commit herself to a single job for any purposeful length of time. I worry a lot about this, and I try to tell her we need stability, money. I mean, let me elucidate: she's been a shrubbery trimmer, a gandy dancer, a coal dock worker, a governess, a butcher's apprentice, an underwear designer, a saloon keeper, a taxidermist, a rubber chicken packer, a mahout, a mob assassin, a tweedy wife of the drunken vicar of Islington, a deep sea diver, a communist infiltrator, an exterminator, an attorney, a garage door installer... I could go on. I once even threatened to purchase a girdle and become the tweedy wife of a drunken vicar myself. Nothing works. I'm a fine companion, after all. A frightfully decent sort of chap. I clean our living spaces at least bi-monthly, well, sort of. I dress nice; I own a selection of handsome argyle sweater vests. I once in a while cook excellent frozen dinners on aluminum platters. I buy her the finest cleaning supplies. Metal buckets, powders and self-squeezing mops. I leave detailed instructions for her cooking assignments. Recipes too; I clip them out neatly for her. What can I do, Auntie Muriel, how can I convince my lady friend to find a position of permanence with real good pay? (Signed)...
Agonized in Argyle!
Dear Agonized in Argyle... Shut up! Whiney, obtuse fool! Go out and get a job of work, you supercilious gnat-brained buffoon! I obscenitize in the soured milk of your impotence! I'm astonished the woman didn't leave you eleven and a-half years ago! She's either a saint or an idiot. You're certainly an idiot! Give the woman some time to discover her true self, her real identity, her joie de vivre, her forte (the "e" is silent, you contemptible snot-nosed baboon!), her metier, her bag, man! Instead of whining about your lady friend and her magnificent achievements, her attainment of varied, extraordinary skills, you should be on your knobbly knees in adoration of such a remarkable woman whom you clearly don't deserve. You should bury your needy, reedy and haughty nose in the want ads, or at least get on relief, you brick-headed issue of a dung beetle. (Don't take offense -- merely constructive criticism)... But I believe you ought to take some responsibility for the economic sustenance of the relationship. Jerk! Thanks for your interesting and nicely-composed letter! (Signed)... Auntie Muriel!
Among letters actually published? Whether or not is up to you, gentle reader. Gibby and I enjoyed our "Auntie Muriel" correspondence enormously, both the real and the manufactured. Over time, he and I produced a significant number of weekly editions of our newspaper; I edited and helped produce only two issues of The Big Bugle. We received erratic payments from Ferb, but I never again saw him in the flesh. Once he Fax'ed us a photo of himself eating snails in a French bistro, greasy dribble on his chin.
Eventually, in the passage of journalistic time, I was lured to Cheyenne, Wyoming and a daily newspaper for which I served as general assignment reporter and erstwhile sportswriter and editor, all for the princely sum of $75.00 a week. I covered and photographed a rodeo from a barrel... (that, too, is a story for another time). Other newspaper, broadcast journalism assignments as well, were
joined like boxcars to my resume whenever the itch and unexplored geography beckoned.
The weekly newspaper is, or was, an exceptionally good training ground for a young journalist. That is, for a young reporter who worked in the field some 40 or more years ago. Being long removed, one is not now an authority on the present status of the weekly press. Never quite achieving fame or fortune in my journalistic career, I am lavishly enriched by the overall experience, having gained a treasure of knowledge and adventure, now zealously guarded in a cerebral vault, that I'll keep and cherish -- brain function willing -- all the way to the tomb.
(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude: The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his great friend, teacher and mentor, Larry Lorenz, a man of exceptional talent in the written word, author, broadcaster, educator, whose love of the profession of journalism and the power of the printed word is an enduring gift to all who have benefitted from his wisdom and intellectual generosity. Thank you, my friend, for your most valued influence, and for sharing ideas, at least one of which led me to recall and recount some adventures in newspaper journalism!)
Dear Agonized in Argyle... Shut up! Whiney, obtuse fool! Go out and get a job of work, you supercilious gnat-brained buffoon! I obscenitize in the soured milk of your impotence! I'm astonished the woman didn't leave you eleven and a-half years ago! She's either a saint or an idiot. You're certainly an idiot! Give the woman some time to discover her true self, her real identity, her joie de vivre, her forte (the "e" is silent, you contemptible snot-nosed baboon!), her metier, her bag, man! Instead of whining about your lady friend and her magnificent achievements, her attainment of varied, extraordinary skills, you should be on your knobbly knees in adoration of such a remarkable woman whom you clearly don't deserve. You should bury your needy, reedy and haughty nose in the want ads, or at least get on relief, you brick-headed issue of a dung beetle. (Don't take offense -- merely constructive criticism)... But I believe you ought to take some responsibility for the economic sustenance of the relationship. Jerk! Thanks for your interesting and nicely-composed letter! (Signed)... Auntie Muriel!
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| The two Aunties Muriel discuss Advice over greenery, biscuits and booze (the latter pretending to be weak tea!) |
Among letters actually published? Whether or not is up to you, gentle reader. Gibby and I enjoyed our "Auntie Muriel" correspondence enormously, both the real and the manufactured. Over time, he and I produced a significant number of weekly editions of our newspaper; I edited and helped produce only two issues of The Big Bugle. We received erratic payments from Ferb, but I never again saw him in the flesh. Once he Fax'ed us a photo of himself eating snails in a French bistro, greasy dribble on his chin.
Eventually, in the passage of journalistic time, I was lured to Cheyenne, Wyoming and a daily newspaper for which I served as general assignment reporter and erstwhile sportswriter and editor, all for the princely sum of $75.00 a week. I covered and photographed a rodeo from a barrel... (that, too, is a story for another time). Other newspaper, broadcast journalism assignments as well, were joined like boxcars to my resume whenever the itch and unexplored geography beckoned.
The weekly newspaper is, or was, an exceptionally good training ground for a young journalist. That is, for a young reporter who worked in the field some 40 or more years ago. Being long removed, one is not now an authority on the present status of the weekly press. Never quite achieving fame or fortune in my journalistic career, I am lavishly enriched by the overall experience, having gained a treasure of knowledge and adventure, now zealously guarded in a cerebral vault, that I'll keep and cherish -- brain function willing -- all the way to the tomb.
(Special Note of Attribution and Gratitude: The perpetrator of this Blog extends enormous thanks to his great friend, teacher and mentor, Larry Lorenz, a man of exceptional talent in the written word, author, broadcaster, educator, whose love of the profession of journalism and the power of the printed word is an enduring gift to all who have benefitted from his wisdom and intellectual generosity. Thank you, my friend, for your most valued influence, and for sharing ideas, at least one of which led me to recall and recount some adventures in newspaper journalism!)
Humbly Submitted 11-05-14 -- Joel K.
