“Even the Funny Papers Aren’t Funny Any More” from the April 23, 1963 Door County Advocate
By KETA STEEBS
Even the Funny Papers Aren’t Funny Any More
By KETA STEEBS
Herman threw his paper on the floor in a messy, wadded heap and grumbled. “What’s happened to good news?”
“What good news?” I asked. “I haven’t seen any good news printed since V-J Day.”
“That’s just what I mean,” he said. “Pick up any paper or magazine and what do you read? Big, black headlines telling us another frustrated teenager shot his family, or eight people were killed in a head on collision, or Khrushchev and Castro are ganging up on us again, or our most advanced nuclear submarine is lying wrecked on the floor of the Atlantic along with our last three rockets that were supposed to land on the moon.”
“Editors have to print what happens,” I said primly. “There must be good news in some other section than the frontpage.”
“If there is, I can’t find it. Taxes are going up on page three (we have to build more submarines and rockets); Monaco feuding with France on page four; the prices of both sugar and steel are rising on page six and three kids burned to death while their mother went visiting on page seven.”
“What happened on page five?”
“Three more cans of tainted tuna were found in Milwaukee.” (I thought glumly of our rapidly diminishing tuna fish sales.)
“Try the comics next,” I suggested hopefully.
He studied them thoughtfully for a few minutes without a trace of a smile.
“Judge Parker is trying to help a former mental patient find a job, Mary Worth is reconciling a divorced couple and Dr. Morgan is trying to prevent a hypnotist from fleecing a wealthy widow. All very hilarious, I must say.”
At that, I had to agree. Whatever has happened to good news, anyway? I decided to do some research of my own, and in the best place possible, Georgie’s Beauty Parlor, where reading is easy—and free.
I no sooner opened the door, when a lady popped her head out from under the dryer and said, “I sure enjoy a good laugh whenever I read one of your articles. There isn’t much left to laugh at nowadays.”
Now, as I consider myself a serious writer, I was not too pleased with the compliment. I thanked her rather stiffly and stuck my head in the shampoo bowl.
When it was my turn to be toasted, I had my choice of reading all the latest magazines. Featured were the latest budget figures on “Cleopatra”, why the “Bay of Pigs” invasion failed (by a guy who was left behind). “Money and the White House” (I imagine they have my check by now) and a story on how “Young America Lives.” This particular family had tough going on a $12,500 yearly income and I got such a lump in my throat reading it, I had to stop after the lead paragraph.
I skipped around and on page 37 found a likely looking article titled, “Have You a Money Making Personality?”
“Aha!”, I thought, “This is for me.”
It turned out to be one of those soul-searching, test-yourself quizzes, which I dearly love. I devoured it greedily, I answered it honestly and after turning to page 73 (where the answers were hidden upside-down) I found I had failed miserably.
The picture magazines were no better. That fox, Jacqueline was chasing, looked so scared, I quickly flipped the page only to be confronted by a full page photograph of the late Miss Monroe being carried out on a stretcher.
I decided the lady was right. There isn’t much left to laugh at nowadays.
Whatever happened to Gabriel Heatter and his reassuring “There’s good news, tonight.” Not an announcer on the air tells us that anymore.
Will Rogers was always a harbinger of good tidings. No matter what he said, a person felt better just because he said it. Wonder what Will would think of the “sick” humor so popular in certain circles today.
“Grit” magazine was another old standby. Next to the Farmer’s Almanac, it was my favorite reading material for many years. Saturday mornings were brightened immeasurably by the arrival of “Grit.” I was allowed to read it only after 1 was through scrubbing and waving the kitchen floor. When mother was busy cleaning the upstairs, I used to cheat by spreading the story section beside me as I scrubbed. I’d become so engrossed in the hero’s masterly conquest of the heroine, I’d have the entire kitchen and half the dining room done before I realized it. Never once did I complain about housemaid’s knee (my favorite alibi, which I still use) when I had faithful, funny, old “Grit” beside me.
The joke columns, struck me as being hilarious but it didn’t do any good to memorize it as every kid in school got the magazine. We all sold the same brand of salve to pay for our subscriptions. Mine ran for five years and the family is still using the salve I sold them.
Mark Hellinger’s column was another enjoyable tidbit which I could read after the Sunday dinner dishes were washed, dried and put away. How I looked forward to draping myself on the daybed and reading those short stories with the surprise endings. If I could only write like Hellinger.
Not long ago, I wrote a short story with a surprise ending and a certain editor (initials C.H.) rejected it. He, evidently was not a Hellinger fan. (Try Frank O’Connor—Ed.)
Those were the days when the comic strip was comical, when jokes were funny, when stories told a story. When we picked up a newspaper, the news was heartening (even during the darkest days of the war). We unabashedly and unashamedly made a fuss over our heroes, our country and our history. We loved a good laugh and weren’t afraid to laugh at ourselves—but we weren’t ashamed to shed a few tears, too.
As kids in school, we fought for the privilege of raising and lowering our country’s flag in the schoolyard. It was an honor not lightly taken. Only the most reliable students were entrusted the flag’s safekeeping; never once was it allowed to touch the ground.
We took pride in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance loudly and in unison with hand over heart. Now, we are told, this is considered Un-American. The pledge isn’t democratic anymore. The flag? So what, if it drags on the ground. Who wants to be a “flag-waver”, anyway?
It’s no wonder our headlines are bleak, our future uncertain, our humor sick. It’s no wonder we quake when Castro sneezes and cower when Khrushchev pound his shoe; why, we spend more and more money on an impressive missile program and less and less time taking a good look at ourselves.
We’ll have good news again! There’ll be more Lindberghs and Earharts and Ernie Pyles and Gabriel Heatters and Will Rogers—and maybe even another Mark Hellinger (if a certain editor will ever publish my story). While we’re waiting, I wonder where I can get a subscription to “Grit.”
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
Other articles by Keta Steebs
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