Read Online Not That You Asked (9780307822215) by Andy Rooney - Free Book Online
Authors: Andy Rooney
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the end of a newspaper has many of the elements of the death of a friend.
The Knickerbocker News
in Albany, New York, was laid to rest at 2:30 P.M. on April 15, 1988, and nothing I can say about its demise can mitigate the sorrow for those who knew it. I knew it.
The Knick
, as it was familiarly known, was part of my life because I grew up with it. When I was eight I waited for it to come. My friend Bud Duffie and I would spread it on the front porch to read the latest comic-strip episodes of Buck Rogers, Ben Webster and Little Orphan Annie.
When I was ten, I made the first money I ever had that wasnât given to me by my father. I delivered the paper to thirty-seven homes, or in the bushes near those homes, over a ten-block area in Albany.
One summer during my college years, I worked briefly in the newsroom of
The Knick
as a copyboy. While the job itself wasnât much, it was on the strength of an overstated line in a résumé regarding the importance of my work there that I was whisked out of the Seventeenth Field Artillery Battalion on maneuvers in Landâs End, England, and assigned to the army newspaper,
The Stars and Stripes
, in London.
I have yellowing clippings from
The Knick
containing my name that Margie and my mother cut from it during World War II: ALBANY BOY FLIES BOMBERS OVER GERMANY .
And for the past eight years my column has appeared in
The Knickerbocker News
three days a week. How could I be anything but sad on the day of the death of an institution that has been so much a part of my life?
On reading of the demise of any newspaper, newspapermen and -women everywhere hear the faint, faraway toll of Hemingwayâs bell. Thereâs a newspaper disease thatâs killing a lot of afternoon papers. No one is certain what causes it, what to do for the patients that have it or how to keep the healthy afternoon papers from getting it. In 1970 there were 1,429 daily afternoon newspapers published in the United States. By 1986 there were only 1,188. In 1987 23 more afternoon papers ceased publication and the number was down to 1,165.
The Knickerbocker News
is part of the statistic for 1988.
If
The Knick
were human someone would certainly say now, on the occasion of its demise, âItâs a blessing.â The poor
Knick
was old and desperately ill. It had suffered terribly. It had the best care there is in the business, but there wasnât much the newspaper doctors could do. Even though it had no chance for survival, no one wanted to unplug the support systems that kept it alive. Everyone kept doing what they could for it even though theyâd known for several years it was hopeless.
Those who knew
The Knick
when it was younger and healthy, would hardly have recognized it in its last, dying days. Thereâs something sad and wrong about being left with the memory of someone youâve loved as he or she looked and acted toward the very end of a good, long life. We should all be remembered, by those who survive us, for how we were at our very best. It seldom happens that way, and a dying newspaper is hardly at its best in its waning months. Giving reporters time to dig for information is expensive and not always productive. Editors on a tight budget have to go for the sure things.
If you believe that information, knowledge and decisions made by people who have all the facts is the best chance the human race has for prosperous survival, you have to mourn the closing of any source of those things. Thatâs what
The Knickerbocker News
was.
Going Feet First
You look at your body for signs of deterioration. Most men notice a change when they get out of competitive contact sports at the ageof about twenty-three. They have the sad feeling theyâve peaked already and will never be in such good shape again. A general deterioration becomes noticeable at thirty.
When I make a casual checklist of body parts, I start at the top and work down. Right now I think my feet are going
The Knickerbocker News
in Albany, New York, was laid to rest at 2:30 P.M. on April 15, 1988, and nothing I can say about its demise can mitigate the sorrow for those who knew it. I knew it.
The Knick
, as it was familiarly known, was part of my life because I grew up with it. When I was eight I waited for it to come. My friend Bud Duffie and I would spread it on the front porch to read the latest comic-strip episodes of Buck Rogers, Ben Webster and Little Orphan Annie.
When I was ten, I made the first money I ever had that wasnât given to me by my father. I delivered the paper to thirty-seven homes, or in the bushes near those homes, over a ten-block area in Albany.
One summer during my college years, I worked briefly in the newsroom of
The Knick
as a copyboy. While the job itself wasnât much, it was on the strength of an overstated line in a résumé regarding the importance of my work there that I was whisked out of the Seventeenth Field Artillery Battalion on maneuvers in Landâs End, England, and assigned to the army newspaper,
The Stars and Stripes
, in London.
I have yellowing clippings from
The Knick
containing my name that Margie and my mother cut from it during World War II: ALBANY BOY FLIES BOMBERS OVER GERMANY .
And for the past eight years my column has appeared in
The Knickerbocker News
three days a week. How could I be anything but sad on the day of the death of an institution that has been so much a part of my life?
On reading of the demise of any newspaper, newspapermen and -women everywhere hear the faint, faraway toll of Hemingwayâs bell. Thereâs a newspaper disease thatâs killing a lot of afternoon papers. No one is certain what causes it, what to do for the patients that have it or how to keep the healthy afternoon papers from getting it. In 1970 there were 1,429 daily afternoon newspapers published in the United States. By 1986 there were only 1,188. In 1987 23 more afternoon papers ceased publication and the number was down to 1,165.
The Knickerbocker News
is part of the statistic for 1988.
If
The Knick
were human someone would certainly say now, on the occasion of its demise, âItâs a blessing.â The poor
Knick
was old and desperately ill. It had suffered terribly. It had the best care there is in the business, but there wasnât much the newspaper doctors could do. Even though it had no chance for survival, no one wanted to unplug the support systems that kept it alive. Everyone kept doing what they could for it even though theyâd known for several years it was hopeless.
Those who knew
The Knick
when it was younger and healthy, would hardly have recognized it in its last, dying days. Thereâs something sad and wrong about being left with the memory of someone youâve loved as he or she looked and acted toward the very end of a good, long life. We should all be remembered, by those who survive us, for how we were at our very best. It seldom happens that way, and a dying newspaper is hardly at its best in its waning months. Giving reporters time to dig for information is expensive and not always productive. Editors on a tight budget have to go for the sure things.
If you believe that information, knowledge and decisions made by people who have all the facts is the best chance the human race has for prosperous survival, you have to mourn the closing of any source of those things. Thatâs what
The Knickerbocker News
was.
Going Feet First
You look at your body for signs of deterioration. Most men notice a change when they get out of competitive contact sports at the ageof about twenty-three. They have the sad feeling theyâve peaked already and will never be in such good shape again. A general deterioration becomes noticeable at thirty.
When I make a casual checklist of body parts, I start at the top and work down. Right now I think my feet are going
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