Seeing the difference

The layoffs, the bankruptcies, the wage freezes, the unpaid leave, the dwindling circulations and advertising revenues have pretty much taken a front seat lately when it comes to this blog.

I recently got back in touch with an old friend from college. During one of our e-mail exchanges, I explained that I wasn’t really looking for newspaper work. Even if I were, there really isn’t much out there and I’d probably just get laid off, I told her. Later, it hit me: it’s not the layoffs.

It’s more about how newspapers are run.

Papers are supposed to help the little guy, inform the public, serve as the eyes and ears for the everyman. Many a time an editor lectured about the newspaper belonging to the community.

It’s pure crap, of course.

For years, newspapers management has been obsessed -- with money. How much can they make for those all-mighty stockholders? Did we upset a city bigwig? An advertiser?

Circulation began falling. So newspaper bosses began scrambling to keep subscribers. Let’s see, is this editorial too strong? Will it offend a bunch of subscribers? Better tone it down. Let’s be more middle-of-the-road. This story is about gay people. We’re a family newspaper. Spike it.

The quest for younger readers began in earnest. Newspapers tried to be hip. Newspapers are not, never have been and never will be, hip. Papers began printing gossip snippets, sterilized and packaged by wire services, sans snark. I remember an education page, anchored by a sweet, maybe newsy, maybe not, feature about a student. Pages for children. Newspapers in Education.
Plenty of journalists have complained that newspapers are failing in their jobs. Most point to the corporate takeover of newspapers as the beginning of the end.
I could literally see the difference at my first newspaper. Our city editor, no college degree, wearing rumpled pants and a shirt that inevitably picked up a bit of his lunch, wore a tie because his boss required one. He typed with two fingers. His voice rose on occasion, when a reporter couldn’t answer a question about a story or when a particularly egregious act of transgression against the public trust had been committed.

The managing editor in the same newsroom, with a bachelor’s and an MBA, always dressed in well-tailored, nicely pressed suits. He left every day at 5 p.m. if not before. He would not have been caught dead with food stains on his shirt. His desk was always neatly arranged and his eyes would roll if a reporter’s desk was too messy. He noted how his reporters dressed and favored those who looked good in their clothes.

The first guy, who is still the best writer I have ever encountered, had worked in newsrooms since the ‘60s and was full of stories about the old days when reporters smoked as they pecked at typewriters and editors sometimes kept a small bottle in a desk drawer.

The second guy wasn’t a particularly talented writer or editor. His news judgment was OK. He reveled in screaming at employees. He thought anyone who wasn’t in their seats in the newsroom was playing hooky. He was big on counting things. He was a clock watcher.

I didn’t do well under the second guy, who once suggested I do something with my hair. He told a fellow employee, female, that she ought to wear makeup and lose weight. I would bet my bank account that the old timer never noticed anybody’s hair or makeup. I’m sure he didn’t care about weight.

When our paper was bought by a large corporation, groups of us would go down to the “big newspaper” for conferences or to shadow the reporters there. We went to an editors meeting. Most of the editors looked like our suited boss – they obviously got frequent haircuts and had tie collections. One wore a sweater over a dress shirt with a tie. None looked messy or ink-stained. The meeting was long and boring. I don’t remember much, except that they discussed Web hits and corrections. They decided which stories would go where. None of them sounded the least bit excited or happy to be there. None argued too much about stories to run.

The newsroom there was big. It was also extremely quiet. Our small office was full of noise -- typing, ringing phones, reporters reading ledes aloud, occasional bursts of laughter. The big newsroom was like a tomb. The reporter we followed introduced us to some people. All of the mid-level editors spoke in low tones and had limp handshakes. Some of the reporters were a bit louder with firmer hands.

One time, four of us drove to the “big paper” for a seminar. When we got there, we tried to park in the big paper’s lot. Security told us we could not. There were spots, we were told, but they were only for corporate employees. We were employees, we said. We showed the guard our press passes and explained we worked at another place owned by the corporation. No one told him to expect us, he said, so we weren’t allowed in. He directed us to a nearby pay lot. None of us had brought any money, so we left.

The corporate paper didn’t look anything like what I had envisioned. It didn’t look exciting, fun or interesting. It looked boring as hell.

Just like the newspaper it put out.