Journalcoholism

Gay Talese (who wrote the phenomenal "Frank Sinatra has a Cold" profile for Esquire that everyone should read at least once) was once a copy editor at the times. And now the world is abuzz (Abuzz! Get it? No? OK, wait one second) at his revelation that journalists were on the sauce.

And these weren't just journalists. They were the best journalists in the world! New York Times journalists! Superjournalists!

Saying journalists are drunks is like saying DMV agents are nitpicky. It is a redundancy of the highest order, according to the Institution for Redundancy Institute. And Gay Talese laments that there is nothing like that now.

Well, Mr. Talese, I wish you could have joined my fellow editors and me for a night putting out the paper.

Some nights began at 5 p.m. with a trip to Chili's where we would order food to go so we could eat back at the office. While waiting for our food to be cooked, we did what college students are naturally predisposed to do: take advantage of the 2-for-1 margarita happy hour special. After two margaritas on an empty stomach, we felt ready to put out a 28-page paper.

I considered the mini-fridge in my mini-office to be the most important thing in the room -- and that included the computer. The managing editor, an otherwise fine individual, would proudly feature on his desk a gigantic bottle of Jack Daniel's. Inter-section games of beer pong abounded. I don't know whether we produced more proof pages or empty beer bottles. Probably the former, but it was close. One of my columnists brought in a bottle of wine once, and we polished off the whole thing while we edited her column. On a couple of occasions I was called back from the bar to fix something. An editorial about a student being stabbed once almost went to print -- it was perfect, except its title was "Woooooo!" Our poor copy editors probably deserved medals.

One night, we missed the deadline to put out the paper by three hours because we were playing Andre Pong and it got out of hand quickly. The next day, I got an angry call from the Advertising Manager, who had the misfortune of coming into the office to work the following morning. She said, "It smells like you killed a hobo in here!" I was kind of proud.

And this is only the drinking we did whilst at the office. Once the paper was put to bed and we were released -- well, it could get rowdy.

We always tried to live to the standards of a sports desker who would have a new bottle of vodka on his desk when he sat down to put out the sports section. Eight hours later, both the section and the bottle would be finished. There were no mistakes in the section either. It was very impressive.

In the interview, Talese says "It's a wonder the paper ever got out." Implicit in that statement is the notion, that, despite the alcohol, the paper got out.

I think the collective experience of journalists proves the contrary. Because of the alcohol, the paper got out.

A car won't run without gas, right?