Toronto Sun sorts are throwing themselves a party tonight, because with the glory days gone and corporate memory deep in dementia, who else would?
Sometimes, you've got to do it yourself.
The Sun's 50th anniversary was last November, but co-vid put the kibosh on any party til now.
Past and present staffers share the sweet and terrible trials of birthing a Toronto tabloid. And keeping it alive. They're also paying the bill, to the benefit of Variety Village.
Typing "birth" seems strange.
Newspapers aren't born any more.
Bean counters, holding companies and hedge funds rumble over their bones.
At the Sun's half century mark, bloggers, news aggregators, e-media and rolling cable crawls spew news 24/7. Tech giants scalp the news and stuff click bait down our gullet.
Zombie news boxes beg to eat our loonies, but print's online survival attempts often hurt the eyes and trouble the soul. Times have changed.
Tonight's party focus is on the Sun gang that gathered hours after the Telegram died. The Day One-ers. The Glory Days. The ad-fat years.
Only beer, pizza and War Stories can soften the hardscrabble march of time and tech.
We are all shadows of what we were.
Once, newspapers were giants.
Presses roared, boxes bulged and the last news guys and gals out made last call and went home proud, tired and happy, to sleep like bears.
They had a calling.
They kinda saw themselves as heroes.
Underdogs for the public good.
Great crews, characters, pals. Mutts and mongrels on a mad daily mission.
It was fun.
And maybe still is.
Let the martini fountain gush tonight.
Memory is sweet.
_
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