A Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Wiseass

You never forget your first time.

I remember mine as if it were yesterday.

I was a sophomore in college, reading the local alternative weekly, when I saw it: a paragraph stating that the paper was looking for TV critics. It said those interested should write a review and submit it. At that time I knew a lot about network TV; I was the one in the family who, at the end of a show, would often say “Don’t turn yet — I want to see the credits!”

So I reviewed a new variety show hosted by Bill Cosby. I wish I could say that I wrote that there was something I didn’t like about the guy, that someday we’d all find out that there was something evil behind his mellow Jell-O vibe, but instead I concentrated on the behind-the-scenes personnel. I said the show’s director had previously directed “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In” and that the Cosby show, while not as fast-paced as “Laugh-In,” did look as if it had spent a fair amount of time in the editing room as opposed to looking like a continuous performance, like Carol Burnett’s show. (Did I sound like an insider, or what?)

My “first time” came a couple of Saturdays later: an envelope from the paper containing a handwritten note from the editor, inviting me to write more, and, more important, A CHECK!

I doubt any writer anywhere would deny that the first time someone tells you that something you wrote is worth paying money for is a moment you never forget, no matter the size of the check.

Which, in my case, was $5.

As I continued to write for the paper, the checks grew to a whopping $15. I figured this was because the paper had just launched two other, short-lived editions in two other cities. Three editions times $5 equaled $15. Let the good times roll.

But this bonanza ended when the paper stopped printing my stuff. No one ever told me why, and I was too naive to call and ask, but I noticed that the paper’s “news hole” — the space reserved for editorial content — had been significantly reduced, apparently because of a shortage of newsprint, and I’ve always figured that this was why I was dropped.

But it was fun while it lasted — and more important, I now had what every budding journalist back then craved: clips that I could show to any potential employer.

And as a bonus, the paper gave me one of the best writing lessons I’ve ever received.

I had reviewed a syndicated sitcom called “Ozzie’s Girls.” It starred Ozzie and Harriet Nelson in a continuation of their long-running network show. The premise: Sons David and Ricky (now calling himself “Rick”) have moved out of the house, and Ozzie and Harriet decide to rent the boys’ rooms to two female college students.

It was an awful show. And as a young smartass, I relished the chance to disembowel it. I began with two or three paragraphs that I was sure were so clever that I almost stopped in the middle of typing them so I could shake hands with myself.

When the next issue came out, I eagerly turned to the review to see what the copy editor — the paper had a good one — had done with it.

When I found the review, my jaw went into free fall: Those golden grafs were gone — it was as if someone had lopped off my head.

And I realized that I deserved it — those paragraphs were merely me goofing around in print.

I believe that copy editor is still around. If I ever meet him, I’ll thank him and ask him to dinner. I’ll foot the bill, of course.

Even if it’s more than $15.

Newsroom Memories: Another Sunday night

It’s near the end of another Sunday night in the newsroom, more than 30 years ago.

Once the first edition is done, Sunday shifts are usually dull; my job at this point mainly involves sticking around in case something breaks, especially something that needs to go on Page One. Aside from the Sports folks, the staff at this point consists of me; a guy named Woolsey, who is night city editor; and a reporter named Grogan, who’s covering the late-cops beat.

About a half-hour after midnight, I see Grogan, notebook in hand, hurrying out of the newsroom.

Something’s up.

I ask Woolsey what it is.

“Stabbing at the Clinton Street News!”

The Clinton Street News, a few blocks away, sells newspapers and magazines. Behind a curtain behind the counter, it sells a lot more: an assortment of toys that consenting adults can use to amuse themselves at home after they’ve finished reading the newspapers and magazines, assuming they bought any newspapers or magazines after they visited the back room.

I’ve visited the Clinton Street News only once, but without going into the back room. I may be the only person who has ever bought a copy of The Washington Monthly at the Clinton Street News. I bought it just to be nice because I happened to be visiting the guy behind the counter — my older brother, Michael.

Who is probably there tonight. And my blood pressure spikes as I realize that he may have been at the wrong end of that knife.

I tell Woolsey this.

“Great! Call him!” says Woolsey, who, had he been born earlier, might well have auditioned to play Perry White on the “Superman” TV show or Walter Burns in any of the incarnations of “The Front Page.”

I look up the number and dial it. To my relief, Michael answers, which he probably wouldn’t do if he were bleeding to death. He confirms that someone was stabbed outside the store. I try to get him to give me details, but the investigating cops are almost surgically removing him from the phone, so he has to hang up. I don’t mind; at least I know he’s safe.

Turns out the victim isn’t seriously injured, so the story won’t go on Page One; more likely, Woolsey will make it a brief in the Local section.

As I type this I feel as if I am describing something from the Stone Age. The newsroom is no longer a newsroom but is part of an ad agency that took over the space after the newspaper company sold the building. (Not long ago the agency advertised for a proofreader. I was tempted to apply, just to see if I could get a look at what the place is like now, but I was afraid they’d hire me and I’d wind up spending another few decades there.)

Grogan is now an editor. Woolsey has since gone to that big City Desk in the sky.

At some point the Clinton Street News closed, leaving my brother unemployed. He eventually died of COPD.

And I don’t know whether any local store sells The Washington Monthly these days — with or without a dildo to go.