Back in 1988 when I had more hair on my head than my back, I wrote a business plan, pitched it to New Haven-based investors and launched a community-weekly newspaper The Bridgeport Light. My friends were required to help including raconteur Timothy “Ace” Holleran.
We got off to a fine start with many institutional advertisers such as banks, hospitals and universities keeping us afloat. Then the New England economy hit the rocks in 1990. Several banks closed. Advertising dollars went sayonara.
But, along the way, we had fun as a crew of young people informing the community at a time Bridgeport was a war zone for crime and grime, the crack cocaine epidemic tearing apart neighborhoods.
Sometimes our editorial content hit home. A fringe mob guy threatened to blow up our building. A federal agent paid him a visit.
Every Friday afternoon was party time in the office with plenty of adequate fluid ounces flowing.
Ace Man, as I call him, was part of The Light scenery, strolling in to crank out a weekly column and stick around to regale us in cocktails and conversation that sometimes segued to various gin mills.
Back then, the current location of Joseph’s Steakhouse Downtown was J.F. O’Connell’s Pub. We strolled there for cocktail hour. Some troglodyte politician had a hair across his ass for something we published. He was in my face. So Ace decided to get into his face. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself!”
And, that was the end of that. We continued to more mundane matters…
Drinking.
A memory or two from Ace Man:
The phone call came. Lennie Grimaldi. “I’m starting a new paper. We’re calling it The Bridgeport Light. Come write for me.” I didn’t need to be asked twice. What did I have going for me? The patina of game-show fame was beginning to wear off ( I had won some bucks between ’85 and ’87). So was the ersatz celebrity.
Sure, I’m in an airport and hear the shout: “It’s the genius! I saw you on Jeopardy!” Wrong show, man. “Did they supply you with the answers?” “What was it like being on TV?” Enough of that crap.
Sure, I could pull the sticks out and bang away at The Sandbar, but the call of the pen was my Siren, and I didn’t lash myself to anything. Plus, for the first time, I might get to hang out with real writers. Sheesh, I might go back to school and learn something.
Turns out, I enjoyed my Light years fantastically. I was scribbling away.
And people read it. I got letters. Most were negative. Pffft. A reader even approached me once and apologized for posting some brimstone. I laughed and gave him a backslap lined with kudos. I think I even bought him a drink.
Best of all, I dwelt among real pros. Bob Fredericks and (the late) Jim Callahan were ink-in-the-veins reporters/columnists. So much so that the duo would butt heads from time to time. I idolized these grizzled vets and basked in their collective shadow.
I plopped into the South End offices but once a week to pen my slice-of-life musings in those pre-web, snail mail days. I called my space “The Park City Irregular” (in a Holmesian nod). But I usually managed to stop down at end of Fridays, when there was always some sort of social mingling, complete with, er, lubrication.
Once we repaired to J. F. O’Connell’s libation outlet for additional jollity when this D-list Park City politico went after my editor, boss and buddy Lennie Grimaldi with a barrage of blue vitriol. I had no recourse but to respond with some even bluer invective. I was loyal, dadgummit.
Best of all (aside from my scribbling), I discovered the vicarious joy of an immediate crush on food-editor AE Tritschler. She was an elegant aesthete and the first All Things Considered addict I had ever met. I even managed to work my way into an internship, accompanying her to a few local eateries for memorable repasts. Such forays usually involved postprandial discussions fueled by nicotine and various distilled Scottish beverages. Those were Mary Hopkin days of heady bohemia, now morphing into a lovely, patchwork past. Did I say “elegant?”
I must admit I felt more than a tinge of pride with a gig that was dyed-in-the-hood Beepo. Stuff as true to the Park City as Helado de Coco or Olmsted’s greensward. Later columns in other sheets had to cater to points south and west, or Snotport, as I conveniently grouped the “haves.”
And yes, I was proud to work for Mr. Grimaldi then. As I am now. Hello, Bridgeport. I’m still here.
