When Giants Strode The Newsroom

There’s hardly such a thing as an old journalist who doesn’t miss the golden era of newspapers and the glamour that went with it. 

In fact there’s hardly such a thing as an old journalist, period. And, sadly, with each passing month there are fewer.

But those of us still standing recall with wistful sighs the time that was, when journalists were celebrities and every little kid wanted to grow up to be a real newspaper reporter.

Back then, anyone spotting a journalist on the street would smile and wave; men would tip their hats, and more than a few damsels would offer a sly wink. “Why, you look like a big time reporter,” she might say with a sweet smile.

“Sorry ma’m, Editor. Features Editor.”

“Oooh,” would come the sighing, fluttering response.

We were a privileged class in a grateful society expressing heartfelt appreciation for the honorable and important effort every employee of a newspaper contributed to America. 

Much of the public’s gratitude came in the form of gift boxes from local merchants (“Look, hon, another batch of cameras from Mike down at Triple S.”) or gift certificates good for a year’s Dinners for Four at the Palace Hotel (where we’d dine in the “Parlour d’Journalissimois”) on the exclusive sixth floor.

Ahh, those are faded memories today, but there was a time, and it lasted many decades, when even California politicians showed respect for the ever-watchful Fourth Estate. Journalists kept a sharp eye on any abuse of power, whether in LA, Sacramento or small towns like Ukiah.

Who among us from that lost era doesn’t swell with well-earned pride at the legislators’ gracious gift of building a separate highway system for the exclusive use of reporters? Everyone understood the need for speedy transport, given the pressure of daily, sometimes hourly deadlines. The two lane ribbon of concrete running from the Oregon border to Los Angeles opened in 1972. 

“FOR CREDENTIALED NEWS MEDIA USE ONLY” read signs at every on-ramp, and true enough the lanes were empty save vehicles carrying reporters to destinations hither and yon. And since it was deemed a private highway, no CHP monitoring took place and thus no sanctions against speeding, littering, or driving while intoxicated. Glory days, those.

Originally called “First Amendment Freeway,” it was renamed “M. Geniella Boulevard: Avenue of Heroes” in 1987. Ceremonial speeches are still available on YouTube.

Are you familiar with Fantasy Camps? The Giants host one every spring so kids can mingle with players, learn fundamentals, have photos taken with Johnny LeMaster or Dusty Baker. Or “RocknRoll Fantasy Camp,” where budding musicians learn skills from real stars like Jimmy Page, Barry Melton or Milli Vanilli. Students get personalized instructions, and on the final night each band performs on stage.

I needn’t remind people about “Newspaper Fantasy Camps” from the 1980s and ‘90s, always with too many applicants for available positions on fantasy sports staffs, copy desks, police beats or news photography. 

Kids learned the basics: Creative expense account tricks (a favorite: attributing hundreds of dollars in bar tabs to the “Developing Sources” category, aka meeting at bars with other reporters and lying to each other.) Another tip: Quotation Fabrication Skills, all variations on this: “Yet another distraught onlooker, who asked to remain anonymous, said the carnage was ‘horrific and terrifying’ prior to bursting into tears.” 

The camp culminated in Award Night where youngsters were given prizes, like a used typewriter ribbon from Herb Caen’s personal Underwood, or an autographed photo of KC Meadows the day she was named Editor of the Ukiah Daily Journal, surrounded by 68 fellow employees. One lucky tyke took home a scorecard (Wildcats 5, Petaluma 4) from the estate of the legendary sports editor Glenn Eriksen. My son Lucas still treasures a soup-stained yellow-orange necktie once worn by Dan McKee of the Willits News.

Every year when camp was over, the AVA’s Mark Scaramella, heading for the door shouted: “Somebody oughta tell ‘em about the W’s and H thing too.”

And it seems like only yesterday I watched a parade down State Street in honor of local journalists and the glories and joy they bring to all. There, a father down on one knee was listening to his young son.

“Dad, can I grow up to be just like Bruce Anderson? Huh, can I?”

Dad: “Why sure you can Scooter! You just do your best in school, learn to be a good writer and there’s no reason at all you can’t be anything you want to be!”

“I wanna be Bruce Anderson!!”

“Well,” said Dad. “How’s your little tummy when you drink bourbon in the morning? And do you really want to own a newspaper that alienates your neighbors, outrages local leaders and then later you die broke?”

I think a nice clear, complete copy of the invoice for the “bridge” would be fun to see. Not much else fun about the whole clusterfuck.