Jimmy Breslin used to hit the bottle like a bloodied, swollen-eyed prizefighter in a marathon 12-round bout. Now he's just punch-drunk when I call.
He no longer writes newspaper columns but he still writes. Existence for the 79-year-old Pulitzer Prize-winner is inextricably tied to writing; his condition demands it.
Right now, in addition to being punch-drunk, he's a bit irate. I'm not going to lie: I think I like him better that way. It suits him - and perhaps his condition demands it, too.
"Rage is the only quality which has kept me, or anybody I have ever studied, writing columns for newspapers," Breslin once said.
You'd like to say Breslin is an ex-reporter, or something along those lines, but you can't. He still observes everything and still tells stories. He still works - and as he infers to me over the phone, in his gravelly Brooklyn accent, that's more than can be said about most writers and newspapermen these days.
Of course, that's why I'm talking to Breslin in the first place - because I want to learn something about being a writer and about how I can remain relevant as one in a changing media landscape.
As The Cavalier Daily's former managing editor, I perhaps unfortunately got it into my head a long time ago that I want to be a writer. But now, truth be told, I'm almost terrified about my future job prospects. Yes, I've held internships. Yes, I've tried my hand at content innovation and the incorporation of new media possibilities. But deep down, I'm just a print reporter, desperately in love with a dying art.
So I call Breslin. I want to know what he thinks about modern-day reporting - what it's missing, what can be done to save it and what he'd recommend I do. I could have asked any journalism school dean the same question, but I wanted a different take. I wanted Breslin - an old-school print reporter, a man I admire even with all his faults - to give me his thoughts.
"That's a difficult question," he says when I ask what upsets him most about journalism. He sucks in air and wheezes. "The number of words they write in a lede. 51 words! You can't hold people's attention. They are just proving they went to college."
As Breslin says this, I instinctively glance at what used to be my desk. On it is a promotional folder sent from a prestigious journalism school. There is a picture: a young, reasonably attractive blonde and her sidekick conducting an interview with a New York City resident. They're smiling so hard their cheeks must hurt.
For about 10 seconds, Breslin's silent. I don't say anything, either. Then he's back to raging, thinking about cumbersome sentences.
"And you've got to take the damn comma off the keyboards," he whines. "They keep the things going for the next 40 words. Make them use periods."
I question aloud what might cause writers to overcompensate in such a manner. Thinking about the promotional picture, I ask Breslin whether a not-so-subtle shift in attitude might be to blame. After all, Breslin's a different kind of person than the lady featured on the brochure. He conducted interviews in bars, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and his tight fingers wrapped around an old-fashioned glass.
"Yeah, yeah," Breslin hacks dryly. His raspy voice cracks, and he nearly spits. "I think the whole thing is work. Climbing stairs. It's the best place in the world to work because of the challenge of climbing four flights of stairs to talk to somebody. I mean, it weakens the knees, but ... there's something important about it. It's a wonderful thing to do."
"If it's so wonderful," I begin, but he cuts me off.
"Oh, I don't know," his voice fades. He doesn't know why reporters stopped taking the stairs. "What they do, I don't know anymore. I certainly don't see writers climbing stairs."
I wonder, then: Is it true that most reporters and columnists just take the elevator nowadays?
"They're missing the great things in life," Breslin says, rightfully proud that he has seen great things and done greatthings. "That's going up four flights of stairs and meeting somebody they never met before."
"And if no one is willing to run up the stairs?" I ask.
"They're missing out on such fun," Breslin almost laughs. "Pleasure - deep pleasure. If you climb stairs, the story you write and the reader reads will exude work."
For Breslin, the noble work that goes into reporting is transcendental and transformational. It goes beyond informing the content of a story. It guides, by some peculiar unseen hand even Breslin struggles to identify, the very language and structure of the writer's art.
"Work's the number one word," Breslin says. "The work is the thrill of the thing. There is no other thing."
What's so sad, of course, is the implication on Breslin's part that most reporters and columnists today are not really working. They are so terrified about the future and are so busy scrambling to adapt that they're not fulfilling their original obligations. As a result, their copy is limp and lifeless.
Breslin's not interested in the limp and lifeless.
"They'll never learn," Breslin squawks, blasting modern journalism for being out of touch with a nigh Joycean sense of the everyday. Bitterness travels with remarkable swiftness via telephone. "And they're dying because of it."
"They're dying of boredom for Christ's sake!"
He's steaming mad now, but tired, too.
"Ah, I'm punch-drunk," Breslin says. "What'd I tell you earlier? Call me tomorrow."
He slams down the phone, and I lean back in my chair. When I called Breslin, I called him determined to learn something about reporting. I wanted to glean some morsel of understanding that might one day help me keep a job in a crumbling industry.
I cast another glance at the brochure - the one with the smiling reporters. I wonder if they climb stairs or if they'd even know how to find the stairs if they were in a tall building filled with elevators.\nAnd then it dawns on me. Hits me right between the eyes like a bloodied, swollen-eyed prizefighter in a marathon 12-round bout.
Thank God The Cavalier Daily office is in the basement of a building. I always have to climb stairs.
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