Media coverage of the six-alarm fire Tuesday at a Fairfield plastics manufacturing plant hints that Solano and Napa counties residents will be in trouble if a real disaster ever strikes the region.
The community newspapers that cover Vacaville, Fairfield, Vallejo and Napa were slow to keep pace with the fire that sent a huge cloud of black smoke toward highly-populated areas. They didn't get quickly changing, breaking news to residents living close to the the site of the fire.
It's not that hard these days to give readers up-to-the-second news. A Twitter account gives those newspapers, and reporters on the scene, the opportunity to hear news now and post it for residents and readers seconds later. Without a social networking site readers and residents could follow, newspapers slowly updated stories on their websites. The process of updating posted stories takes time that, eventually, a disaster in the area will not allow us to waste.
Sacramento and San Francisco television coverage was atrocious.
Anchors blabbered on and on about live video of the awe-inspiring inferno in Fairfield. Based on the locations from which they provided live remote updates, reporters couldn't have had access to decision-makers. News filters very slowly from a fire at a plastic plants near Travis Air Force Base and a safe, smoke-free spot along Air Base Parkway. One TV reporter couldn't even explain how far she was from the fire that, shown in the background, was 4, 5 miles to her east.
Residents and viewers know that fires burn really hot and that a fire so hot that it creates a mini-weather pattern of its own is really awesome. However, they need to know things like how the dark plume of smoke would affect air quality. TV anchors talked to environmental protection agencies, explaining only that the air was being tested.
By 4 p.m., 2 1/2 hours after the fire started and as the smoke began to hover over my Rolling Hills neighborhood (west of I-80) in Fairfield, there was still no word on whether the smoke presented a health risk. Viewers and residents were simply told to stay inside, with windows closed and air conditioners off, if they lived within a mile or two of the blaze.
Anchors let folks who should know the danger of smoke from a fire at a plastics plant off the hook, never pressing them to use what they do know about the smoke from burning plastic to give us some hint of what we should expect.
The TV coverage, instead, let the wrong folks talk too much about things that led us to expect the worst. KOVR Channel 13 in Sacramento had an interview with a man who owned a plastics plant that had a large fire some years back. Good idea, right?
Well, the interview aired around 2:30 p.m. and the man said a plastics fire "would burn and burn forever ... they might as well just let it burn itself out."
The fire was contained by 4 p.m.
The plastics guy said there are different kinds of chemicals that present in plastic that provide different levels of danger in a fire. He guessed that the region would be facing a toxic hazard for some time.
There was no toxic hazard reported, at any point, on Tuesday. Twenty-six hours after the fire started, there was still no toxic hazard.
To be fair, the environmental protection agencies were as slow and out of focus as media coverage.
Does it really take 2, 3, 4 hours to get a report from a hazardous materials crew? If so, what are we going to do if there's a poisonous chemical spill or worse in these parts?
The media missed even the obvious things that residents near the fire would need to know. TV coverage included worded that traffic was backing up on Air Base Parkway during rush hours because people were driving toward the fire to take photographs and shoot video. At that point, it would've been a public service to remind people that the last thing area residents and firefighters needed was to have a traffic jam caused by morons who found a potentially tragic fire a simple curiosity.
The media missed what people in my neighborhood could see. The smoke, all TV stations insisted, was headed to the south and southeast over Vacaville. There was no mention of the growing black smoke cloud that was headed west toward Fairfield's Rolling Hills and Rancho Solano ... or that the smoke cloud was potentially going to reach the Napa Valley if the fire continued out of control.
People in the Napa Valley likely had no idea that the black smoke was going to reach them, or could have reached them. Fortunately, the fire was contained and the smoke began to disappear.
If there's a disaster in San Francisco or in Sacramento, fine. The media will cover it and folks will be able to respond accordingly. If a disaster strikes Solano, Napa, Yolo or any other county without a strong media presence ... residents will be on their own.
It would've been nice to have put the fire's location to all neighborhoods in the area in some perspective.
Showing posts with label Fairfield Daily Republic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fairfield Daily Republic. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Everybody's so (*&*%$*# mad!
People are getting madder every single day.
I don't know what they're so mad at, but they're really, really angry.
There was a time when I'd never seen people publicly holler in anger. I'm 54 years old, so that meant years and years of people keeping their cool and turning the other cheek.
Three times in the last week, I saw and heard people lose their temper for God and the whole world to see and hear. I mean, they were red-faced and madder than hell.
You won't believe what led people to morph into raving maniacs. You can, however, help me figure out why people are so damned mad.
The Safeway shopping center parking lot near the house is always busy. There are traffic signs and arrows painted on the ground to help drivers maneuver their way onto Waterman Road or out of the parking lot toward Rolling Hills, Rancho Solano or the highway. The folks who built the shopping center didn't leave room for two cars to pass each other in the parking lot, so they compensated with the confusing maze of traffic signs and directional arrows.
People are always backing into somebody else's path.
The other day, I was walking to mail a letter (OK ... to mail a bill payment that was long overdue) at the UPS outlet. I heard someone just lay on their horn. No one honks their horn for that long and that loudly. It crossed my mind that one of the stores had an alarm, that sounds like a car horn, going off.
I turned around to see a newer white van, the kind you see filled with kids headed for soccer practice, stopped in the middle of the driveway. A black SUV, one you'd typically see filled with camping gear or groceries, was stopped with it's front bumper almost touching the driver's side door of the van.
The woman driving the SUV was shouting out her window, leaning on the horn.
Remember, people are pulling out in front of each other in that parking lot all the time.
"Watch where you're going!! You *&^%$ idiot!?!!! You almost hit my *&^%$ van?"
It turned out that the woman driving the white van was shouting out her window, too.
"You %$#@#$%^ ... *&(**%!! *&^%$## *&*# car!"
The woman driving the van was unwilling to let go of the idea that blame had to be placed and accepted for the non-accident. I'd never heard one woman call another woman a *&^%$## *&*# before.
The drivers had attracted the attention of everyone in the parking lot. I'm not sure, but I couldn't have been the only one thinking, "What's the big deal?"
The woman in the white van pulled forward into her parking space -- still shouting to nobody from inside her car. The woman in the black van certainly couldn't hear her.
The woman in the black van rolled her window up and pulled away. Her face was ashen as, I'm sure, she realized that whatever she was really angry about had prompted her to make a fool of herself in the Safeway parking lot. Nobody gets that mad about a mixup in a parking lot. I suppose taking care of kids, rushing home to make dinner and being taken for granted by her husband could account for the altercation in the parking lot.
When the woman in the van finally backed out, safely, she was still shouting out loud to nobody. She was so upset that she was mad at ... well, mad at nobody. She was alone in her rig still shouting.
The next morning started like all mornings. I wondered where my next dollar would come from and went to spend one of my last ones to get gas. I wound up at the traffic lights at the four-way stop on busy Travis Boulevard across from the Raley's shopping center.
Suddenly, a little, late model pickup truck scorched through the intersection. The passenger had his head stuck out the window, twisting awkwardly looking to the rear. He was berating the driver of the little white car behind him.
"You *&^%$n' stupid *#tch! Keep your *&^%$ eyes on the ..."
I guessed that the guy in the black ball cap wanted the lady driving the little Toyota to keep her eyes on the road.
The guy was in his early 30s and he looked like the guy who goes from zero to throwing punches really fast. His cheeks were red, like every guy who drinks beer like cherry Kool-Aid's cheeks are red. There had to have been a beer belly hidden behind the passenger side door.
The black ball cap is the kind that men like him typically wear when doing something foolish. It's unclear whether black ball caps make men angry or if angry men wear black ball caps. (The incident hinted that there was certainly a bumper sticker with the white silhouette of a naked woman or a Playboy bunny somewhere on that truck. I'm virtually certain.)
The lady was driving that teeny, tiny Toyota. Not the Matrix, but the Toyota that was a Matrix before Toyota sliced the Matrix in half to make an even smaller car. The car would've fit in the fat, angry man's front pocket.
The woman had both hands on the steering wheel and she stared straight ahead and rolled through the intersection. The horse's ass in the truck was all twisted and contorted as he tried to stick his head further out the window to glare back at her.
In fairness, that guy's probably got problems in life. Like me, maybe he's unemployed. Maybe he's getting a divorce. Heck, he probably lives in his mom's basement. Still, hard to understand how anyone could be that mad at a woman who accidentally nosed too far out from the stop light at the I-80 off ramp onto Travis Boulevard.
Dixon's a tiny town to the east of Fairfield. It's located right along I-80, breaking up the farmlands that lead the way to Davis and, then, to the urban sprawl that starts in Sacramento. Nothing much happens in Dixon. It's quiet, usually.
Faithful Safeway shoppers like me get a discount on Safeway gasoline. There's no gas station at the Safeway in Fairfield, so I always stop in Dixon to get the cheapest gas that I'll probably ever get anywhere in my life. The Dixon Safeway gas station is always busy, as busy as anyplace in Dixon can be. Still, for $3.47 cents a gallon ... I'm willing to wait in line to get to a pump.
It's uncertain why the little guy gassing up his Ford Taurus was looking at the gas pump behind him and talking. He could've been talking to himself, I guessed, but he'd have to have been reciting one of his favorite speeches to have talked into the air for so long.
"Shut the hell up and get gas!"
Oh? The little guy was talking to the great, big, muscular man at the pump right behind him. The man with the muscles in the tight, tight polo shirt was talking on his cell phone. Aren't there warning signs that insist we not use cell phones while pumping gas? What are the odds that the cell phone would spark an explosion?
Ah, either way, I hoped my gas would pump quickly and, moreover, that the little guy would be quiet.
"*&^# you! There are open pumps! Nobody's waiting you &^%$#@!"
Oh, again ... the little guy was aware of the warning signs about cell phones and standing up for drivers who might want to use the pump the big dude was occupying. About the time the big fellow reiterated that the small man was a &^%$#@, I noticed that the man with the muscles was done pumping gas and just standing in the shade talking on the phone.
Why don't etiquette policemen like the little guy know when to stop talking? There really is no law against being thoughtless or selfish. How is it that they think that they'll be so reasonable that even a burly guy in a paint-stained polo shirt, a guy with a ragged goatee, will listen to them?
"Seriously, dude ... shut the *&^% up!"
Guess how many people were watching, listening and wishing they could shout, "Man, just get in your car and leave! The guy's getting ready to kick your ass. Give it up!" Well, there was me ... that's one who was thinking that way.
The smaller man just wanted to have control over something, I'll bet. Rules are rules -- at least, they used to be. Maybe he followed the rules and lost his job or his wife or his house. Then, he saw the big guy talking on the cell phone taking up a pump at a busy gas station and he couldn't take it.
The big man was a guy I'd fear in such a circumstance. He wasn't ranting or raving, but rather explaining loudly that he wasn't moving and that he wasn't hurting anybody. The inference, clearly, was that he'd be willing to go beat that little guy up and stuff him in his Taurus if the guy insisted on pushing things.
My mom taught me that there are times to just walk away. Too bad the little guy's mom didn't teach him the same thing.
It was an ugly incident made surrealistic by the fact that the big fella' never moved the cell phone from his ear. Who argues in public while carrying on a phone conversation? Either super cool or simply stupid, I figured. He kept the other party on the line and, it seemed, would shout down the little dude and then tell the person on the phone what he'd just said. I hoped that the person was suggesting that strangling the little guy wasn't an option.
People are so mad.
I don't know what they're so mad at, but they're really, really angry.
There was a time when I'd never seen people publicly holler in anger. I'm 54 years old, so that meant years and years of people keeping their cool and turning the other cheek.
Three times in the last week, I saw and heard people lose their temper for God and the whole world to see and hear. I mean, they were red-faced and madder than hell.
You won't believe what led people to morph into raving maniacs. You can, however, help me figure out why people are so damned mad.
The Safeway shopping center parking lot near the house is always busy. There are traffic signs and arrows painted on the ground to help drivers maneuver their way onto Waterman Road or out of the parking lot toward Rolling Hills, Rancho Solano or the highway. The folks who built the shopping center didn't leave room for two cars to pass each other in the parking lot, so they compensated with the confusing maze of traffic signs and directional arrows.
People are always backing into somebody else's path.
The other day, I was walking to mail a letter (OK ... to mail a bill payment that was long overdue) at the UPS outlet. I heard someone just lay on their horn. No one honks their horn for that long and that loudly. It crossed my mind that one of the stores had an alarm, that sounds like a car horn, going off.
I turned around to see a newer white van, the kind you see filled with kids headed for soccer practice, stopped in the middle of the driveway. A black SUV, one you'd typically see filled with camping gear or groceries, was stopped with it's front bumper almost touching the driver's side door of the van.
The woman driving the SUV was shouting out her window, leaning on the horn.
Remember, people are pulling out in front of each other in that parking lot all the time.
"Watch where you're going!! You *&^%$ idiot!?!!! You almost hit my *&^%$ van?"
It turned out that the woman driving the white van was shouting out her window, too.
"You %$#@#$%^ ... *&(**%!! *&^%$## *&*# car!"
The woman driving the van was unwilling to let go of the idea that blame had to be placed and accepted for the non-accident. I'd never heard one woman call another woman a *&^%$## *&*# before.
The drivers had attracted the attention of everyone in the parking lot. I'm not sure, but I couldn't have been the only one thinking, "What's the big deal?"
The woman in the white van pulled forward into her parking space -- still shouting to nobody from inside her car. The woman in the black van certainly couldn't hear her.
The woman in the black van rolled her window up and pulled away. Her face was ashen as, I'm sure, she realized that whatever she was really angry about had prompted her to make a fool of herself in the Safeway parking lot. Nobody gets that mad about a mixup in a parking lot. I suppose taking care of kids, rushing home to make dinner and being taken for granted by her husband could account for the altercation in the parking lot.
When the woman in the van finally backed out, safely, she was still shouting out loud to nobody. She was so upset that she was mad at ... well, mad at nobody. She was alone in her rig still shouting.
The next morning started like all mornings. I wondered where my next dollar would come from and went to spend one of my last ones to get gas. I wound up at the traffic lights at the four-way stop on busy Travis Boulevard across from the Raley's shopping center.
Suddenly, a little, late model pickup truck scorched through the intersection. The passenger had his head stuck out the window, twisting awkwardly looking to the rear. He was berating the driver of the little white car behind him.
"You *&^%$n' stupid *#tch! Keep your *&^%$ eyes on the ..."
I guessed that the guy in the black ball cap wanted the lady driving the little Toyota to keep her eyes on the road.
The guy was in his early 30s and he looked like the guy who goes from zero to throwing punches really fast. His cheeks were red, like every guy who drinks beer like cherry Kool-Aid's cheeks are red. There had to have been a beer belly hidden behind the passenger side door.
The black ball cap is the kind that men like him typically wear when doing something foolish. It's unclear whether black ball caps make men angry or if angry men wear black ball caps. (The incident hinted that there was certainly a bumper sticker with the white silhouette of a naked woman or a Playboy bunny somewhere on that truck. I'm virtually certain.)
The lady was driving that teeny, tiny Toyota. Not the Matrix, but the Toyota that was a Matrix before Toyota sliced the Matrix in half to make an even smaller car. The car would've fit in the fat, angry man's front pocket.
The woman had both hands on the steering wheel and she stared straight ahead and rolled through the intersection. The horse's ass in the truck was all twisted and contorted as he tried to stick his head further out the window to glare back at her.
In fairness, that guy's probably got problems in life. Like me, maybe he's unemployed. Maybe he's getting a divorce. Heck, he probably lives in his mom's basement. Still, hard to understand how anyone could be that mad at a woman who accidentally nosed too far out from the stop light at the I-80 off ramp onto Travis Boulevard.
Dixon's a tiny town to the east of Fairfield. It's located right along I-80, breaking up the farmlands that lead the way to Davis and, then, to the urban sprawl that starts in Sacramento. Nothing much happens in Dixon. It's quiet, usually.
Faithful Safeway shoppers like me get a discount on Safeway gasoline. There's no gas station at the Safeway in Fairfield, so I always stop in Dixon to get the cheapest gas that I'll probably ever get anywhere in my life. The Dixon Safeway gas station is always busy, as busy as anyplace in Dixon can be. Still, for $3.47 cents a gallon ... I'm willing to wait in line to get to a pump.
It's uncertain why the little guy gassing up his Ford Taurus was looking at the gas pump behind him and talking. He could've been talking to himself, I guessed, but he'd have to have been reciting one of his favorite speeches to have talked into the air for so long.
"Shut the hell up and get gas!"
Oh? The little guy was talking to the great, big, muscular man at the pump right behind him. The man with the muscles in the tight, tight polo shirt was talking on his cell phone. Aren't there warning signs that insist we not use cell phones while pumping gas? What are the odds that the cell phone would spark an explosion?
Ah, either way, I hoped my gas would pump quickly and, moreover, that the little guy would be quiet.
"*&^# you! There are open pumps! Nobody's waiting you &^%$#@!"
Oh, again ... the little guy was aware of the warning signs about cell phones and standing up for drivers who might want to use the pump the big dude was occupying. About the time the big fellow reiterated that the small man was a &^%$#@, I noticed that the man with the muscles was done pumping gas and just standing in the shade talking on the phone.
Why don't etiquette policemen like the little guy know when to stop talking? There really is no law against being thoughtless or selfish. How is it that they think that they'll be so reasonable that even a burly guy in a paint-stained polo shirt, a guy with a ragged goatee, will listen to them?
"Seriously, dude ... shut the *&^% up!"
Guess how many people were watching, listening and wishing they could shout, "Man, just get in your car and leave! The guy's getting ready to kick your ass. Give it up!" Well, there was me ... that's one who was thinking that way.
The smaller man just wanted to have control over something, I'll bet. Rules are rules -- at least, they used to be. Maybe he followed the rules and lost his job or his wife or his house. Then, he saw the big guy talking on the cell phone taking up a pump at a busy gas station and he couldn't take it.
The big man was a guy I'd fear in such a circumstance. He wasn't ranting or raving, but rather explaining loudly that he wasn't moving and that he wasn't hurting anybody. The inference, clearly, was that he'd be willing to go beat that little guy up and stuff him in his Taurus if the guy insisted on pushing things.
My mom taught me that there are times to just walk away. Too bad the little guy's mom didn't teach him the same thing.
It was an ugly incident made surrealistic by the fact that the big fella' never moved the cell phone from his ear. Who argues in public while carrying on a phone conversation? Either super cool or simply stupid, I figured. He kept the other party on the line and, it seemed, would shout down the little dude and then tell the person on the phone what he'd just said. I hoped that the person was suggesting that strangling the little guy wasn't an option.
People are so mad.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
My pal can still save newspapers from hyper-local nightmare
One of my best friends has always known how to turn around the sagging fortunes of community newspapers. It's simple, really, but all the people who've wasted years watching newspapers die have failed to grasp what my pal knows to be true.
People buy small newspapers for the same reasons that they buy metro newspapers or check their favorite web sites. They want to be informed, entertained, inspired, amused and to feel like they're getting some bang for their buck.
My friend was the sports editor at a Solano County newspaper for years. Even when he built a staff of writers that produced an abundance of hyper-local copy, he knew that many of the Fairfield Daily Republic's 18,000 or so readers couldn't have cared less about the local Little League or high school teams.
He knew that there were folks who'd never buy his newspaper if all he could provide them were stories about kid and amateur adult athletes those folks weren't interested in at all.
What? You think community newspapers will grow strong featuring nothing but small-town, local sports? OK. When was the last time you went to watch a Tuesday night bowling league event or a youth club's swim meet?
See? You don't care about that stuff, so why would you read about it?
So, my friend Brad Stanhope kept his eye out for national and international stories that he considered "water cooler stories." He knew it was foolish to think everyone who could buy the Daily Republic only wanted to read about the events and people in Fairfield, Suisun City, etc. It was simple, but it was genius ... and the editors and publishers who are strangling the lives out of their community papers now still don't get it.
No, really ... they don't get it. I've been a sports editor more recently than Brad Stanhope has been and my effort to keep his "water cooler story" theory convinced me that the people who can save small papers are actually without a clue as to what can save them.
One day Brad, my boss, decided that our featured story should be an Associated Press piece about people in Great Britain who wager on squirrel racing.
"People are going to stop and read this story," he said, smiling because I rolled my eyes, speechless at the thought of a community paper featuring a piece about gambling ... on squirrels ... in Great Britain.
Brad knew that people didn't buy the Daily Republic to read Associated Press stories. He just thought that not all AP stories were created equally.
"If you didn't work here would you read that story about the 49ers that you want to put in that spot?" he asked.
Excellent question. And, no ... I wouldn't read a generic story about the San Francisco 49ers written by a wire service reporter who, I knew, doesn't give much time or thought to the team or the story. And, I read about the 49ers in a dozen other spots, so why would I read about them in the DR?
Clearly, Brad had thought through his theory, which is more than most of today's small-town editors and publishers have done.
Today's Daily Republic sports section featured a Little League all-star game featuring 9- and 10-year-old players.
Everyone who read today's DR got to that sports page, thought, "Isn't it nice that they're writing and taking photographs of the local children," then turned the page without giving the story a second thought.
The only people who care about a baseball game between 9- and 10-year-old players are their parents, immediate family, a few frienda and, well ... wait! It's uncertain if anyone beyond parents would read a game story once they figured out the final score.
I can't remember a thing about that Little League all-star story or any of the other dozens of hyper-local high school or other sports featured daily in the Daily Republic. I can't remember much about hundreds of similar stories I've written myself.
I remember that story about squirrel racing. It was different. It caught my eye and stopped me on the page.
How do I know that hyper-local doesn't sell? Well, I know the circulation figures haven't risen in Fairfield or Napa (or Vallejo or Vacaville) very much or for very long in the last decade or two. If the all-local, all-the-time nonsense was truly appealing, circulation figures would rise.
Interesting stories sell papers. Stories that appear to be interesting generate web page views.
The squirrel racing story was interesting. I remember people who read it and thought, "This is ridiculous." Still, they read it. When they put the Daily Republic down they knew they could count on finding stories in there that they might not find anywhere else.
I'm certain that people would have discussed it around the water cooler if there were still water coolers in many offices.
I was reminded that my friend can save community newspapers, if they'd let him, when I looked at the Daily Republic today.
My friend has a new gig at the DR, on the news side. So, I wasn't surprised to see an A1 story from the Associated Press about a move that could result in overly obese children being taken away from their parents. It was tucked in amongst those hyper-local stories I never read.
I read that story about the fat kids being snatched away from their parents and realized that my pal's still finding the interesting story -- and then selling it to managers who are looking for local names and local news and, apparently, to bore me to death.
Brad is probably explaining his "water cooler" theory to a new generation of co-workers. And, he's starting by telling the younger staff members what it was like when offices had water coolers.
Just because it's local doesn't make it interesting. I hope my friend can convince more people of that quickly, while newspapers still have a chance.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
People buy small newspapers for the same reasons that they buy metro newspapers or check their favorite web sites. They want to be informed, entertained, inspired, amused and to feel like they're getting some bang for their buck.
My friend was the sports editor at a Solano County newspaper for years. Even when he built a staff of writers that produced an abundance of hyper-local copy, he knew that many of the Fairfield Daily Republic's 18,000 or so readers couldn't have cared less about the local Little League or high school teams.
He knew that there were folks who'd never buy his newspaper if all he could provide them were stories about kid and amateur adult athletes those folks weren't interested in at all.
What? You think community newspapers will grow strong featuring nothing but small-town, local sports? OK. When was the last time you went to watch a Tuesday night bowling league event or a youth club's swim meet?
See? You don't care about that stuff, so why would you read about it?
So, my friend Brad Stanhope kept his eye out for national and international stories that he considered "water cooler stories." He knew it was foolish to think everyone who could buy the Daily Republic only wanted to read about the events and people in Fairfield, Suisun City, etc. It was simple, but it was genius ... and the editors and publishers who are strangling the lives out of their community papers now still don't get it.
No, really ... they don't get it. I've been a sports editor more recently than Brad Stanhope has been and my effort to keep his "water cooler story" theory convinced me that the people who can save small papers are actually without a clue as to what can save them.
One day Brad, my boss, decided that our featured story should be an Associated Press piece about people in Great Britain who wager on squirrel racing.
"People are going to stop and read this story," he said, smiling because I rolled my eyes, speechless at the thought of a community paper featuring a piece about gambling ... on squirrels ... in Great Britain.
Brad knew that people didn't buy the Daily Republic to read Associated Press stories. He just thought that not all AP stories were created equally.
"If you didn't work here would you read that story about the 49ers that you want to put in that spot?" he asked.
Excellent question. And, no ... I wouldn't read a generic story about the San Francisco 49ers written by a wire service reporter who, I knew, doesn't give much time or thought to the team or the story. And, I read about the 49ers in a dozen other spots, so why would I read about them in the DR?
Clearly, Brad had thought through his theory, which is more than most of today's small-town editors and publishers have done.
Today's Daily Republic sports section featured a Little League all-star game featuring 9- and 10-year-old players.
Everyone who read today's DR got to that sports page, thought, "Isn't it nice that they're writing and taking photographs of the local children," then turned the page without giving the story a second thought.
The only people who care about a baseball game between 9- and 10-year-old players are their parents, immediate family, a few frienda and, well ... wait! It's uncertain if anyone beyond parents would read a game story once they figured out the final score.
I can't remember a thing about that Little League all-star story or any of the other dozens of hyper-local high school or other sports featured daily in the Daily Republic. I can't remember much about hundreds of similar stories I've written myself.
I remember that story about squirrel racing. It was different. It caught my eye and stopped me on the page.
How do I know that hyper-local doesn't sell? Well, I know the circulation figures haven't risen in Fairfield or Napa (or Vallejo or Vacaville) very much or for very long in the last decade or two. If the all-local, all-the-time nonsense was truly appealing, circulation figures would rise.
Interesting stories sell papers. Stories that appear to be interesting generate web page views.
The squirrel racing story was interesting. I remember people who read it and thought, "This is ridiculous." Still, they read it. When they put the Daily Republic down they knew they could count on finding stories in there that they might not find anywhere else.
I'm certain that people would have discussed it around the water cooler if there were still water coolers in many offices.
I was reminded that my friend can save community newspapers, if they'd let him, when I looked at the Daily Republic today.
My friend has a new gig at the DR, on the news side. So, I wasn't surprised to see an A1 story from the Associated Press about a move that could result in overly obese children being taken away from their parents. It was tucked in amongst those hyper-local stories I never read.
I read that story about the fat kids being snatched away from their parents and realized that my pal's still finding the interesting story -- and then selling it to managers who are looking for local names and local news and, apparently, to bore me to death.
Brad is probably explaining his "water cooler" theory to a new generation of co-workers. And, he's starting by telling the younger staff members what it was like when offices had water coolers.
Just because it's local doesn't make it interesting. I hope my friend can convince more people of that quickly, while newspapers still have a chance.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
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