Last week my son called me really excited with some good news.
Damo as we effectively call him is the editor of 6 newspapers in Arizona
He’s spends long days getting things together to get the newspapers ready to roll out on the press.
I really don’t know too much about the newspaper business so I Google it and here’s what I found
by Steve a. Smith
A newspaperman was a writer. An author. The true, first voice of history.
A newspaperman chronicled the life of his times on old Remingtons with faded ribbons.
A newspaperman wrote on copy paper, one story in one take.
If he wanted a copy, he used carbon paper. If it didn’t sing, it was spiked.
A newspaperman edited with pencils and always had a ready stack,
freshly sharpened, at the start of every shift.
A newspaperman smoked at his desk. And if the managing editor wasn’t paying too much attention,
he might steal a drink, too.
A newspaperman knew how to eat well and finish off the meal with a stiff drink and a fine cigar — all on the company dime.
A newspaperman wore black slacks, a bit worn. A short-sleeved white shirt and a thin black necktie.
A newspaperman owned one pair of black wingtips for his entire career.
A newspaperman had nicknames, raunchy, rude and unashamedly affectionate nicknames,
for all of the linotype operators in the basement.
A newspaperman reveled in the composing room heat, the smells of melted lead and oily black ink.
But the newspaperman was most at home in the newsroom.
A loud, smoky, smelly place. Wire machines. Real phones with loud rings.
The morning news meeting held in the men’s room, the last two stalls on the right,
each editor doing his business while conducting business.
The newsroom was a place of boisterous rough housing, crude jokes and tough insults,
none taken too seriously, unless they were taken seriously, in which case there might be a bit of a ruckus,
maybe a swing or two.
And the characters. The copy editor who barked like a dog.
The old city editor who ate reheated fish for lunch.
The former war correspondent, hobbling around on one leg, the other lost to drink not combat.
The newsroom was no place for the meek. The young newspaperman knew that when the managing
editor threw a coffee cup at his head, the proper recourse was to duck.
The older newspapermen had their heroes. Ben Franklin. John Peter Zenger. Horace Greeley.
William Randolph Hearst. Joseph Pulitzer, maybe. William Allen White certainly.
And because he had the heart of a newspaperman, Edward R. Murrow and, later, maybe Walter Cronkite.
For the aspiring newspaperman, heroes were the veterans who welcomed him into the newsroom,
all the while expecting he would stay quiet, pay his dues and eventually prove himself under fire.
The brightest, most ambitious, most talented young newspapermen were grateful for every day
they were able to work next to these great, principled and talented men.
A newspaperman knew the meaning of a deadline. He felt a chill when the presses rumbled at
midnight and would look for a reason to be in the press room,
slipping an early run paper from the conveyor to give the front page a quick
look and maybe also to see his byline in print.
Newspapermen worked hard and played hard.
The bartender at the dive across the street knew how many beers each reporter could consume between editions.
And after the last edition went to press, the bar lights would be turned up just enough to let the newspapermen
read those papers pulled fresh from the press.
The newspaperman was respected in the community. There was a mystique, a glamour that really didn’t exist but
which the newspaperman happily cultivated. In the movies, the editors were Cary Grant. Or Clark Gable. Or Jack Webb.
Or Humphrey Bogart, the greatest of all.
The young newspaperman wanted to be Bogie, standing in the press room, screaming into the phone,
“That’s the sound of the press, baby.”
The young newspaperman aspired to challenge authority, defend the defenseless and right wrongs.
If he was a Don Quixote with a pen, his windmills were politicians, bureaucrats, crooks and thugs.
He thought of his job as a calling and truth was his holy grail.
Nice read Steve.
I don’t picture my Son drinking and smoking cigars but who knows.
When I asked about the good news he said.
Dad I’ve got a space to fill in the newspaper and if you send me an ad I’ll put you in.
How cool is that.
I sent him a few choose one on the Recharging Qi Gong.
Take a look http://rechargingqigong.com/recharging-qi-gong.html
The other one was an ad that I ran in Black Belt magazine.
I’ll let you know what he picked as soon as he sends it to me.
Dr Wu's Black Belt
I wish you the best in your Health, wealth and happiness.
Dr. Wu Dhi
PS Thanks Damo xoxo Dad
“Where there is Blockage there is pain,
Flying Crane Qi Gong
