Archive: September, 2005
Sam Bushman, himself, was the source for this pearl, of course. Sam, who died Sunday, head-mastered the Old School. He was a press agent, not a public relations man. He'd been doing it since the year Amelia Earhart made her solo flight, and the FBI shot Ma Barker. That was 1935.
For the time most of us at the newspaper knew him, he worked out of his apartment in the Dorchester, borrowing the building's fax machine, because he didn't have his own. Few of us visited him in his office.
As long as we're mining this Brush With Greatness theme today, Sally Swift had a surreal one with a certain mystic from Hibbing, Minn., whose early days get a two-part Martin Scorsese examination starting tonight on public television.
It's a period piece, her post called Bob Dylan - My Personal Chronicle. The time is the late '60s, a June morning. She's a Penn student weekending at a classmate's vacation home in sedate Connecticut. It's been a hazy night, and her wake-up call is not welcome at first - music coming from the house next door.
At first groggy, then annoyed, then stilled by the plaintive, haunting sounds drifting through the clear morning air. We listened, confused, and said to each other, "God, that's incredible. I didn't know Dylan had a new record."
With a gold likeness of Independence Hall pinned to her red jacket, and a dog-eared copy of the Constitution tucked into her evening bag, Ruth Friendly, 81, stood under the lights at Avery Fisher Hall and said it wasn't so hard seeing her late husband portrayed by George Clooney.
"George isn't bad to look at," said the retired school teacher. "But Fred, you knew Fred. Fred was louder."
This was Friday night, at the debut of Good Night, and Good Luck, and I had the opportunity to stand on the other side of the velvet rope, as a guest of the Friendly family. Fred Friendly's youngest son, David, was my college roommate for four years, and we've stayed close even though he's gone over to the dark side; once he covered Hollywood, now he is Hollywood.
Crooks and Liars and Newshounds are all over it. C & L has links to the 8-minute video. Newshounds has the transcript. They scream. They point. They make some points. They question each other's patriotism. They call each other names. They fight for the last word.
The Lake Charles (La.) American Press has gone blog in anticipation of Hurricane Rita's arrival.
Thursday morning the paper got itself a Blogger account and signed on with this note:
Got a new calamity correspondent. Sgt. Steve Jones (no, that's not him in the picture) usually sits at a desk in Trenton, speaking to reporters on behalf of the New Jersey State Police. Since Monday he's been patrolling a wasteland, one of scores of Garden State law enforcement officers who drove to New Orleans, doing what they can to help the hurricane-devastated city. Jones wrote this email Monday night, after his first full day on the job.
Television is so sterile. The devastation I saw upon entering the flooded part of New Orleans took me completely by surprise. I had watched CNN for a couple weeks before I came down, but as bad as it looked, TV coverage cannot possibly have the impact that standing one moment in the midst of the destruction does.
Been cutting and pasting this morning, reading coverage in the blogs of the Philadelphia grand jury's scathing critique of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia's handling of priest abuse cases - and the Church's equally harsh reaction.
Found a couple dozen posts so far, and will update throughout the day.Capturing the outrage is Citizen Mom. For her, the morning paper hit like a punch in the gut, she writes.
My moment occurred in schoolboy hockey, a breakaway - me closing in on the goalie, who sets, then looks on in amazement as I fake a quick slap shot and somehow lose balance and fall forward ON THE PUCK, sliding slowly toward the net. Puzzled, he decided to end my misery and stopped me and the puck with his stick, as my teammates started howling, chanting ROO-BIN! ROO-BIN!, whacking the blades of their sticks against the boards in unison, a thundering clap I still hear today.
But I digress.