Topeka Capital Journal
July 23, 1997

This column is about newspapering, but there won’t be stories about editors screaming, “Stop the presses.” These days the presses are still stopped, but it’s because of a malfunction, a power outage or a plan to get the box score of the Royals latest loss in Seattle, or Oakland, or maybe a 15-inning, five-hour defeat in Chicago, in the paper.

There even was a time when the presses would be stopped, or started late, so that a display advertisement could be added, or maybe, in extreme circumstances, eliminated. Late changes also could mean the presses would start early. It was enough to make editors scream, “Leave the bleeping presses alone!” (More on bleeping later.”)

Snow was the main culprit. If a heavy snow was falling, or was forecast, deadlines might be moved up to give circulation workers more time to get the papers distributed and delivered. Snow also could mean more ads were crammed into the paper, creating havoc as editors lost precious space.

The ads would be for snow tires and shovels, particularly early in the season. In almost every city where snow was a possibility, there were snow ads set and ready to run, waiting for a blizzard or at least enough snow to get stuck in or shovel.

Publishers and editors look at snow from distinctly different viewpoints. Publishers, eyeing revenue, would look at the forecast and the storm clouds and say, “Let’s hope it’s nothing trivial.” They would pray for enough snow to trigger the ads, and often the decision would be made within minutes of press time.

Editors understood the priority of revenue over space, but they could be heard to sob occasionally as they tore up pages, getting rid of stories and photos to make room for snow tires. Can you imagine the pain of losing a layout on bikini fashions in the tropics to a Gregg Tire Co. ad?

On rare occasions, however, editors gained space because of what happened in the news. Airline companies had standing orders to newspapers to pull their ads if there was a story in the same issue about an airline accident.

The reasoning is obvious. It wouldn’t do to have a story about a crash that took 89 lives wrapped around a big ad for an airline company boasting of the speed, comfort and safety of flying. There were some big-time disagreements when newspapers failed to pull airline ads on a disaster day.

Editors really never spent a lot of their time worrying about snow and airlines. As they do today, they always worried more about the quality of the product. The Capital-Journal, for example, has an in-house critic and teacher who reads every word of the news in the paper every day, and comments on it, often rather harshly.

I would tell you her name is Stannie Anderson, but I won’t, because some might think I’m trying to gain favor.

The other day, in her weekly critique, she was emphasizing the value of short lead sentences. Seven words, she said, are much more inviting to the reader than 87, which admittedly I lean toward. But, if short sentences and paragraphs are what she wants, expect to see this lead on a future Topeka shooting:

Dead
That’s the way they found Joe Smith Friday.
Shot
In the head, four times.

It is good form in newspapering to give credit where it’s due for something like the above, but I stole it so long ago I can’t recall where it came from. Maybe it was Reader’s Digest, because it is also good form to steal from quality sources.

Newspapers, which must make their product acceptable to a wide audience, can be thankful for the word bleep. It is, without question, the most versatile word in the language. Here are just a few examples of its usage, with Translation following:

“No bleeping way.” (I don’t think your idea is feasible.)
“You’ve got to be bleeping me.” (Would you please repeat that?)
“You’re confusing me with someone who gives a bleep.” (That’s really interesting, but maybe you should call 911, or write to Anne Landers.)
“What the bleep?” (How did I get called for jury duty?)
“You got your head up your bleep.” (I don’t think you’ve listened to what I’ve tried to tell you.)
“This job bleeps.” (Why wasn’t I born rich?)

Finally, my favorite newspaper story. In the old days at the Daily Capital, Arthur “Scoop” Conklin always answered the phone at night. Often it would be people who, having heard a siren, would call and ask, “Where’s the fire?” Scoop, listening to the police radio, would patiently tell them, “10th and Mulvane,” “4th and Kansas,” or whatever.

Then one night, the fire was in our press room, and Scoop had a ball. The callers would ask, “Where’s the fire?” and Scoop would shout, “Downstairs!” Then he’d hang up.