Yellowed Journalism

This rather murky photo of me dates back to January 19th, 1974. Taken by George Detrio (who went on to win a MacArthur Fellowship for portrait photography in 1981) for the Miami Sun Reporter, it purports to catch me in the act of breaking into one of the paper’s boxes for a free copy. All in good fun, of course.

This was the first newspaper interview that Steve Smith and I did as the advance clowns for the RIngling Blue Unit. We were both nervous. What if the reporter didn’t like us? What if we gave really stupid answers, or became tongue-tied?

Jan Korman was the reporter assigned to cover our appearance at the newspaper. Back in those breezy days just about anyone could walk into a newspaper office and wander about at will. Smith and I went in, unannounced, and had to ask several busy-looking characters pounding on manual typewriters where we could find Ms. Korman before we were directed to her desk on the third floor. Turns out she was a housewife-intern-news stringer. These strange amalgams existed on most newspapers a long time ago; their function was to bring in the mundane press release sweepings for the big bad editor to sift for anything actually newsworthy. They were usually housewifes stifled by cloth diapers and husbands sick from too many Manhattans in the bar car on the commuter train who wanted a wider chance and more compelling spectrum. They yearned to become part of a great metropolitan news organization, to make a difference in the lives of avid readers. What they usually wound up doing was the recipe column on Thursdays -- if they were lucky.

Smith and I felt rather deflated that we had been consigned to a lackey, not a real reporter. We represented the Greatest Show on Earth, dammit, and we didn’t care to be treated like second class citizens. So we acted out, just like spoiled children. Or the Marx Brothers.

Smith upended a metal trash basket to bang out a perky tattoo while I waltzed about the newsroom flinging wire copy about like rose petals. We then turned the tables on poor Ms. Korman by sitting on her desk and interviewing HER:

“Who runs this newspaper?”

“Can you wrap fish in it? And if so, how long before they stink? The reporters, that is -- not the fish!”

“What’s the capital of North Dakota? Quick, gal -- out with it before they change their minds!”

This unprofessional temper tantrum should have ended with us being escorted out of the building, on our ears, and then being fired by Ringling -- since we had just broken every rule that Leon McBryde, the elder statesman of advance clowning, had taught us. But instead, such was our charm and luck way back then, that Ms. Korman laughed until she had an accident and had to retire to the Lady’s Room. She wrote us up in glowing terms, ending her article with “and if this is the caliber of the Ringling clown alley you’d better not miss it; for it harbors nothing but Chaplinesque geniuses!”

Not bad for our first day’s work . . . .