Monday, March 12, 2012
Postcards killed the radio show
Hard to believe, but this postcard killed a radio show.
CBC's Parka Patrol, the wry Saturday night show that apparently came from a forest ranger tower near Maynooth, ON, disappeared after a successful two year run in the '80s.
The first year, it drew 350 pieces of mail. The second year, nearly 700.
Funny thing about the intimacy of radio: each single listener feels he or she knows the little voice in the box. They want contact.
The poor sap who wrote and voiced Parka Patrol answered the mail.
"If we could just print up some postcards, life would be so much easier," the Corporal of the Cordwood begged. "The mail load is impossible."
"What would be on the front of the postcard?" asked the Corp.
I made one for them.
I found it this morning.
They said no.
The show ended.
Sigh.
CBC's Parka Patrol, the wry Saturday night show that apparently came from a forest ranger tower near Maynooth, ON, disappeared after a successful two year run in the '80s.
The first year, it drew 350 pieces of mail. The second year, nearly 700.
Funny thing about the intimacy of radio: each single listener feels he or she knows the little voice in the box. They want contact.
The poor sap who wrote and voiced Parka Patrol answered the mail.
"If we could just print up some postcards, life would be so much easier," the Corporal of the Cordwood begged. "The mail load is impossible."
"What would be on the front of the postcard?" asked the Corp.
I made one for them.
I found it this morning.
They said no.
The show ended.
Sigh.
The Sun never sets
Fans and critics of the Toronto Sun know that over the years, John Cosway compiled a fascinating blow-by-blow account of its rise, flubs and failures. Virtually every staffer contributed to his feisty independent blog. Way kewl.
(See it at torontosunfamily.blogspot.com)
In the fall of 2011, the Sun "celebrated" its 40th anniversary.
Quietly is an understatement.
But Cosway solicited every staffer to contribute memories of their time at the word factory.
They're all at the above e-address.
Here was mine....
----------------------------
WEDNESDAY, 26 OCTOBER, 2011
Memories of the Toronto Sun - Gary Dunford
Bruno Gerussi - the Stratford actor-turned-Beachcomber - scored me the longest gig I ever had.
He was chums with TV critic Bob Blackburn and the amazing Kathy Brooks and knew more than most about the death of the Tely and birth of the Sun.
As the Sun invented its new Sunday edition, Gerussi insisted I meet Brooks and pitch a humour column. I added it to my handful of freelance gigs, which included Bruno's radio show and his fledgling Beachcombers.
My weekly Sunday Sun playlets mostly centred on Tiny Perfect MayorDavid Crombie and his civil circus. Three or four people found them funny. I was at the one year mark and counting - mostly counting myself lucky. But then Brooks calls . . .
Kathy drags me in to see J.D. MacFarlane when Slinger left for the Star. The scowly editorial director owl seemed dubious I could file 34 column inches, five days a week. But Brooks charms him. "I want items!" he thundered.
On a good day my space was an odd mix of jokes, media whispers, quizzes, blind items. It took about two years to become Page Six, a smart alec spreadsheet of local heroes, CBC excess and sheepdogs.
John Downing was my Sun guardian angel and mentor. It was Downing's IBM Selectric I used til he came over from city hall late afternoons. It was Downing who often advised on what was total or partial B.S. in the flotsam I collected. And it was Downing's unseen hand that allowed a wildcard freelancer - who "served at the pleasure of the publisher" for 23 years - to be treated like Sun staffers, which was very well indeed.
To repay him, I kept an ugly eight-foot tall cardboard palm tree on his desk for about 10 years, an eyesore to most, but a fine landmark for incoming Strip-o-grams.
"Gary," a worried Marj Henry would whisper into my extension: "I think there's another crazy person here to see you." Keep them in the lobby. I'll come out.
For a few years, Mark Bonokoski and I shared a back corridor office, prime real estate with a glass window allowing us to scout every model, actress and bunny wannabee, rushing with her makeup bag to a SUNshine Girl photo shoot. I think Bono missed a few stunners while out at the city desk, barking at some hapless editor about his missing adjectives. Go figure.
Old fogie that I am, I well remember Jim Yates handing me my first Radio Shack TRS-80 Model100 word processor, the cutting edge of 1983 technology. With about 10 pounds of cables and teacup-sized couplers, you could be 60% certain of filing a column into the Sun's cranky computer room. It was a miracle that dwarfs the iPad. Okay, some nights, you had to file four or five times. Up to a dozen if there were thunderstorms.
Since I was a pioneer telecomuter, my space at the Sun changed as often as fall fashion. My desk was once close to Peter Worthington's editor space: I was aware of every column complaint he took from the boss of CFTO.
Did Doug Bassett know how many iffy items came hand-written on cream-colored Desk of Douglas Creighton memo paper? Maybe. Gossip fresh from Winston's. I was a hapless pawn in some decade-old Tely payback I knew nothing about. Honest.
For two happy years, I got to see every crutch, sling, bandage and ankle cast editor Barbara Amiel sported, rolling into the office from her exercise, falls and social wars. It made me much more health-conscious.
Much has been made of what a party school the Sun was. How many Columnists' Dinners were there? Too few. Doomed by wretched excess. It was Sun style. Party hearty. Go big or go home. Rent SkyDome. Get a carousel in there. And don't miss the after-party at Hoofer's. Crooks. Betty's. Go if only to hear the Star people bitch.
Tom MacMillan was every columnist's co-conspirator, mine more than most.
What newspaper in North America underwrote every-10-year sabbaticals? Played Santa Claus in good years and bad? Cut some stock aside for those who weren't Day Oners in Sun Media's IPO? Did we know how good we had it? You bet.
A dozen wage slaves were airlifted annually to "Sun Seminars" in distant cities. Mine was in New York City in 1984. There, in the swank Hotel Pierre ballroom, I showed the directors a home-made video that mocked the paper, its editors, its readers. The legendary Amiel Reel, tagging her as the Black Queen of King Street. Always bite the hand that feeds you. It was possible. Humour was not a firing offence. MacMillan intro'd me as asked as loner and loon. True.
I'm always amused when Cos includes some whippersnappers' complaint that TSF is for and by boomers looking backwards at an amplified, impossible, golden and glorious past. How can the present ever compete with such B.S?
Memory is a blessing, kiddos: time erases most of the petty, stupid and awful. (Did we really drag Liz Braun to lunch at the House of Lancaster? May we all burn in Hell.) But you have total recall of the good stuff. Memory is sweet.
And for Sun staffers of most of the last 40 years, there was a generosity of spirit afoot that quite simply was unique.
Worth celebrating.
Awesome.
(See it at torontosunfamily.blogspot.com)
In the fall of 2011, the Sun "celebrated" its 40th anniversary.
Quietly is an understatement.
But Cosway solicited every staffer to contribute memories of their time at the word factory.
They're all at the above e-address.
Here was mine....
----------------------------
WEDNESDAY, 26 OCTOBER, 2011
Memories of the Toronto Sun - Gary Dunford
Bruno Gerussi - the Stratford actor-turned-Beachcomber - scored me the longest gig I ever had.
He was chums with TV critic Bob Blackburn and the amazing Kathy Brooks and knew more than most about the death of the Tely and birth of the Sun.
As the Sun invented its new Sunday edition, Gerussi insisted I meet Brooks and pitch a humour column. I added it to my handful of freelance gigs, which included Bruno's radio show and his fledgling Beachcombers.
My weekly Sunday Sun playlets mostly centred on Tiny Perfect MayorDavid Crombie and his civil circus. Three or four people found them funny. I was at the one year mark and counting - mostly counting myself lucky. But then Brooks calls . . .
Kathy drags me in to see J.D. MacFarlane when Slinger left for the Star. The scowly editorial director owl seemed dubious I could file 34 column inches, five days a week. But Brooks charms him. "I want items!" he thundered.
On a good day my space was an odd mix of jokes, media whispers, quizzes, blind items. It took about two years to become Page Six, a smart alec spreadsheet of local heroes, CBC excess and sheepdogs.
John Downing was my Sun guardian angel and mentor. It was Downing's IBM Selectric I used til he came over from city hall late afternoons. It was Downing who often advised on what was total or partial B.S. in the flotsam I collected. And it was Downing's unseen hand that allowed a wildcard freelancer - who "served at the pleasure of the publisher" for 23 years - to be treated like Sun staffers, which was very well indeed.
To repay him, I kept an ugly eight-foot tall cardboard palm tree on his desk for about 10 years, an eyesore to most, but a fine landmark for incoming Strip-o-grams.
"Gary," a worried Marj Henry would whisper into my extension: "I think there's another crazy person here to see you." Keep them in the lobby. I'll come out.
For a few years, Mark Bonokoski and I shared a back corridor office, prime real estate with a glass window allowing us to scout every model, actress and bunny wannabee, rushing with her makeup bag to a SUNshine Girl photo shoot. I think Bono missed a few stunners while out at the city desk, barking at some hapless editor about his missing adjectives. Go figure.
Old fogie that I am, I well remember Jim Yates handing me my first Radio Shack TRS-80 Model100 word processor, the cutting edge of 1983 technology. With about 10 pounds of cables and teacup-sized couplers, you could be 60% certain of filing a column into the Sun's cranky computer room. It was a miracle that dwarfs the iPad. Okay, some nights, you had to file four or five times. Up to a dozen if there were thunderstorms.
Since I was a pioneer telecomuter, my space at the Sun changed as often as fall fashion. My desk was once close to Peter Worthington's editor space: I was aware of every column complaint he took from the boss of CFTO.
Did Doug Bassett know how many iffy items came hand-written on cream-colored Desk of Douglas Creighton memo paper? Maybe. Gossip fresh from Winston's. I was a hapless pawn in some decade-old Tely payback I knew nothing about. Honest.
For two happy years, I got to see every crutch, sling, bandage and ankle cast editor Barbara Amiel sported, rolling into the office from her exercise, falls and social wars. It made me much more health-conscious.
Much has been made of what a party school the Sun was. How many Columnists' Dinners were there? Too few. Doomed by wretched excess. It was Sun style. Party hearty. Go big or go home. Rent SkyDome. Get a carousel in there. And don't miss the after-party at Hoofer's. Crooks. Betty's. Go if only to hear the Star people bitch.
Tom MacMillan was every columnist's co-conspirator, mine more than most.
What newspaper in North America underwrote every-10-year sabbaticals? Played Santa Claus in good years and bad? Cut some stock aside for those who weren't Day Oners in Sun Media's IPO? Did we know how good we had it? You bet.
A dozen wage slaves were airlifted annually to "Sun Seminars" in distant cities. Mine was in New York City in 1984. There, in the swank Hotel Pierre ballroom, I showed the directors a home-made video that mocked the paper, its editors, its readers. The legendary Amiel Reel, tagging her as the Black Queen of King Street. Always bite the hand that feeds you. It was possible. Humour was not a firing offence. MacMillan intro'd me as asked as loner and loon. True.
I'm always amused when Cos includes some whippersnappers' complaint that TSF is for and by boomers looking backwards at an amplified, impossible, golden and glorious past. How can the present ever compete with such B.S?
Memory is a blessing, kiddos: time erases most of the petty, stupid and awful. (Did we really drag Liz Braun to lunch at the House of Lancaster? May we all burn in Hell.) But you have total recall of the good stuff. Memory is sweet.
And for Sun staffers of most of the last 40 years, there was a generosity of spirit afoot that quite simply was unique.
Worth celebrating.
Awesome.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Back at the dawn of TV, on Sunday afternoons there was an NBC show called Wide Wide World.
Dave Garroway hosted this hour experiment, as they attempted to put up a live picture of Niagara Falls, a live street fair in Chicago, traffic moving across the Golden Gate Bridge.
Since this was all done with patchplugs, coaxial cables and transcontinental switches, it was about 20% static and 80% miracle. When things went wrong, Garroway turned to his closeup camera--while technicians scrambled--to explain how impossible it was to do such a show in the 1950s.
Like much in life, the long-ago show lives in memory as a childhood miracle, flickering images that beget videotape, satellites, high def.
At the end of each Wide Wide World, Garroway would recite the following benediction:
"The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide...
Above the earth is stretched the sky,
No higher than the heart is high."
He'd hold up two fingers and add: "Peace."
I think of the verse ever time I go kayaking....
Dave Garroway hosted this hour experiment, as they attempted to put up a live picture of Niagara Falls, a live street fair in Chicago, traffic moving across the Golden Gate Bridge.
Since this was all done with patchplugs, coaxial cables and transcontinental switches, it was about 20% static and 80% miracle. When things went wrong, Garroway turned to his closeup camera--while technicians scrambled--to explain how impossible it was to do such a show in the 1950s.
Like much in life, the long-ago show lives in memory as a childhood miracle, flickering images that beget videotape, satellites, high def.
At the end of each Wide Wide World, Garroway would recite the following benediction:
"The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide...
Above the earth is stretched the sky,
No higher than the heart is high."
He'd hold up two fingers and add: "Peace."
I think of the verse ever time I go kayaking....
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Where did I go?
Out.
What did I do?
Rafting in Costa Rica.
I have hundreds of photos...
. Lots of tree frogs in blue and red.
. Birds of every description.
. Perfect curves of nearly deserted Pacific beaches.
. Surf as sweet as Hawaii.
. Dozens of new beans and rice dishes.
. Friendly locals on the party bus that takes you up above Jaco and buries you in beer.
. Amiable Ticos and the world's best coffee.
. Moody volcanos and zip lines thru the trees.
. Crocs and holwer monkeys and spoonbills in the trees, as pink as a baby's butt.
. Magic landscapes as only nature can design them.
... but alas, no picture of the baby ant eater.
(It moved too fast for me to stop being slack-jawed.)
I still dream green.
But what haunts me still is the overnight raft trip down the Rio Pacuare.
One of the world's five last great wild rivers.
Beyond magic.
Beyond words.
Midnight: just stars, darkness and the whisper of water.
Yes, I had fun.
That is where I've been.
Happy Canada Day.
Out.
What did I do?
Rafting in Costa Rica.
I have hundreds of photos...
. Lots of tree frogs in blue and red.
. Birds of every description.
. Perfect curves of nearly deserted Pacific beaches.
. Surf as sweet as Hawaii.
. Dozens of new beans and rice dishes.
. Friendly locals on the party bus that takes you up above Jaco and buries you in beer.
. Amiable Ticos and the world's best coffee.
. Moody volcanos and zip lines thru the trees.
. Crocs and holwer monkeys and spoonbills in the trees, as pink as a baby's butt.
. Magic landscapes as only nature can design them.
... but alas, no picture of the baby ant eater.
(It moved too fast for me to stop being slack-jawed.)
I still dream green.
But what haunts me still is the overnight raft trip down the Rio Pacuare.
One of the world's five last great wild rivers.
Beyond magic.
Beyond words.
Midnight: just stars, darkness and the whisper of water.
Yes, I had fun.
That is where I've been.
Happy Canada Day.
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