RIPOSTE
by RIP RENSE |
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NICE GUY
FINISHES
Apr. 9, 2009
I’m eating
a coconut macaroon, which is more than Steve Plesa can
do.
Actually, anything I do
is more than Steve Plesa can do.
Steve’s taken the last
exit off the Meat Highway. He’d like that turn of phrase, I’m sure.
He’d laugh lustily, and shake his head sardonically, and add
something funny to it. And I wish he could.
I hate writing this, and
I’m sick of this website turning into a series of obits of old
friends. Print journalism is a hard racket, as they say, and it
uses up bodies and brains before they grow old. Is there any
consolation in the fact that newspapers appear to be finally
getting theirs, in return for all their thankless, brutish
treatment of reporters and editors?
Steve opted out, more or
less. Right, alcoholism is a disease, and that’s absolutely
true, and he had the disease. But somewhere along the line, he
just forgot how to see the sunshine. That’s all I can figure.
Part of a letter found in his home reads, “I opened the door and
let it in.” “It” being the bottle. Even so, my guess is that he
never realized how physically sick he was.
It is well known
among his friends that Steve went through an extremely difficult
relationship, which took an enormous toll on his spirit. He used
to phone me with tales I could not believe. He also worked for a
newspaper (and I use that term advisedly) that kicked his ass
out after about 25 years of consummate professionalism and
excellence. That rag would be the Orange County Register, a corporatized hell that once eliminated the term, “editor,” from
Steve’s title, rendering him something called a “team leader.”
Yay, team.
How he laughed about
that. Bitterly, yes, but laughed nonetheless. That was his
wont, his default mechanism, his essential self: laughter. You
picture Plesa, and you damn well picture him smiling. Always.
That’s the image that sticks. Eyes narrowed with mirth or
mischief or anticipation of something amusing; broad and
unrestrained grin.
Well, it’s restrained
now. Wish somebody could have restrained that bottle. Wish
somebody could have stopped some poor little girl in her 20’s
from giving Steve the ax at the Register. Can you imagine? You
work as a journalist all your life---he had about 35 years in
newspapers, having started as a copyboy at the L.A.
Herald-Examiner, where I met him---and you get the boot from a
child. It’s like that movie, “Village of the Damned,” or the
Cultural Revolution in China.
For all the humiliation
he felt, they might as well have paraded him through the street
in a dunce cap.
And that’s when he let
“it” in.
Drinking problem? Hardy-har-har.
In pre-politically correct newspapers, you used to practically
put it on your resume. The drunk, jaded newsman is the oldest
cliché in the book. The recently departed Jim Bellows, arguably
the greatest newspaper editor of the last 50 years, was a two or
three-martini-a-lunch guy. At my old man’s paper, the original
L.A. Daily News---and probably every other L.A. paper of those
days---there were booze bottles in desk drawers. (A memo from the
Daily News publisher once instructed reporters to keep the bottles
off the desktops.) I’ve written my share of murder stories after
a couple of shots, and I’ve watched a few copy editors nod off
over thermoses full of bourbon.
The Register should have
promoted Plesa to editor-in-chief. He was that good, that smart,
that knowledegable, that canny, that full of esprit d’ corps,
intelligence, news judgement, humanity. He was just one of the
good guys. Certainly an improvement over the unimaginative,
self-important martinets who too often run newspapers (into the
ground, as we are seeing.)
And that might have
been the whole problem. Good guys finish last in this, the
era of no empathy. Cunning, deceit, self-aggrandizement,
self-reward, hucksterism, cheating, egomania, abuse, avarice,
pose, game-playing are the coin of the realm, and Plesa was
short on change.
Ask anyone who worked
with him. The stories are all about how decent, fair,
comforting, helpful, selfless the guy was. Instructed to fire a
young writer, he refused, and took the writer for a walk around
the block instead. Another writer wanted his name taken
off of a story wrecked by an overzealous editor (almost a
redundancy), and Steve went to the top to get it done. Let me
tell you: standing up for writers is not what gets you initiated
into the Fraternal Order of Pompous Cover-Your-Ass Editors.
Another anecdote: he was fired from the city desk at the
Register, no fault of his own. A reporter had failed to secure
an interview on a breaking murder story---no fault of his
own---and Steve was stupidly sacked, “demoted” to features. A
supervising editor said to Plesa, “Steve, if you fuck me on
this, I’ll fuck you for the rest of your life.”
Classy people, these
editors.
And Steve just rolled
with it. He wasn’t the type to get in the gutter with office
politics, but would go to the mat on principle for a colleague.
This is a rough one.
Steve was only 55, and his spirit was young. There are a hell of
a lot of ex-colleagues right now who have, as his former Her-Ex
pal Anne Hurley said, “holes in their hearts.” The guy had a way
of getting into your affections, and staying there. I barely saw
him after the Her-Ex, but always---always---counted him as an
ally, a close friend. And vice-versa. We checked in with each
other once in a while by e-mail and phone, and I eventually was
inducted into a small e-mail circle of misanthropes that
included thriller author Robert Ferrigno, who was hired by Plesa
at the Register (and who went on to name the first guy killed in
his books some variation of “Steve,” as a tribute), and
Ferrigno’s brother, James, who does the “Dr. Wazoo” strip on
this site.
He edited a hell of a
lot of my best stories, did Steve. In the old days at the
Her-Ex Style section, he was the ever-amiable, down-to-earth,
unpretentious editor who caught actual deficiencies in your
copy, asked you about them in a way that never rankled, and left
things improved. He handled most or all of the award-winning
series I wrote about unreleased Beatles music there (lobbying to
let the series finish when another editor wanted to kill it,
noting that it had gotten the paper international headlines and
massive news rack sales.) And about ten years ago, he
volunteered to edit my first novel, “The Last Byline,” “just for
fun,” as he put it. I said okay on the condition that I pay him.
In true Plesa form, he agreed to that---and never cashed the
check.
But this isn’t one of
these human-as-editor tributes. Steve was a human being who happened to
be an editor. This was a Valley kid with a great, classic mom and dad who
grew up learning guitar and listening to the Beatles and Stones,
hiking in the hills, riding bikes. Paid his hallucinogenic
garage-band dues, like any respectable dude, then went to
Notre Dame University before landing at the pre-Bellows wreckage of the
Her-Ex as a copyboy (where he was to marry copygirl Mary Beth
Murrill, with whom
he remained friends, decades after their youthful marriage
ended.)
Music. If there was
anything more important to him than his beloved sons---and there
wasn’t---it would have been music. But for a voice injury
suffered in childhood, leaving him permanently gravel-toned, he would certainly have wound up
behind a microphone in a club or two. When we were colleagues,
he used to drop by my old apartment in Sherman Oaks once in a
Saturday afternoon, and in short order things would turn to beer
and Beatles. There are a hell of a lot of people who really
appreciate The Beatles, who grasp what they were doing on a
multitude of levels (more than even they did!), and I can say
with some unabashed authority that Plesa was one of them. Our
discussions of “why Ringo is great” should have been taped. Wait
a second, I can hear Plesa’s rejoinder: “Or maybe not!”
What else. . .
He was a romantic, and
an old-fashioned gentleman who loved and appreciated women
who were witty, conversant, warm, yet he was also a kind of
Holden Caulfield who was never fooled by any bullshit, even when
caught up in it. He was an intellect with a surprisingly
Renaissance Man storehouse of information (he read a lot, and
retained), and loved---I mean loved---to shoot the breeze about
The Nature of Things. I got a call from him a couple years ago
along those lines, from out of the blue. There was an
obligatory, “So, Rip, how are you?” but I’d say not two minutes
passed before he set the topic:
“So what the fuck do
you think it’s all about? I mean really.”
That was a two or
three-hour call, and I’m sure we both nailed down exactly what
the fuck it’s all about. I mean really.
Not too long ago, I
exhorted him and vivacious girlfriend Laurie to come up and see
Country Joe McDonald at McCabe’s Guitar Shop, and a splendid
time was had by all. “He’s still got it—the voice, the chops! He
sounds great!” said Steve. I hadn’t seen him in at least a dozen
years, and frankly, he didn’t look so hot, so I got on his back,
as much as one can in e-mail, about exercising, learning
tai-chi, something. But Plesa more or less rejected all such
suggestions, or shined you on. Maybe it was the Booze Devil at
work, I don’t know, but he wasn’t interested in anyone’s help,
and he never caved in to self-pity. Not once that I ever saw, or
heard. He had his dignity, his sense of humor, and he had no
illusions about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. If
he had a flaw, it was to have erred on the side of fatalism, but
then, that gives him much in common with Mark Twain and Kurt
Vonnegut.
So our final notes
came down to discussions of music (he was dabbling in
composing) and how L.A. and human behavior have gone totally to
hell, and how he wanted to get his two boys and pick me up and have
me sort of narrate a grand tour of historic L.A., but that never
happened. And yes, Steve---at least the sober Steve---was still
trying to figure out what to do, work-wise, but kept hitting
dead ends. In one instance, he told me of submitting a pitch to
some dip who used to work for him, and how the dip had
gotten full of himself (see accompanying e-mail) and began
writing high-flown stuff urging Steve to think “what the piece
would really be about.” Gag. That was the end of that. (He was
later turned down for a job by that same guy, who claimed it was
his boss's decision.) When I suggested that he pick up
spare change by running some local weekly, it prompted a
well-warranted, “Yes. Dickhead Publications is my first
priority.” At one point, he drafted a piece aimed at
Hustler---rather wry and oh, racy---and I hear that there is a
file of fiction sitting in his computer.
Steve was a fine writer, by the way. Maybe would have been
happier writing than editing.
The last Plesa e-mail I
have is routine stuff about how he saw took his sons to see
“Gran Torino” on my recommendation, and liked it very much.
That’s the way life is. Your last talk with someone is about
feeding the goddamn dog, cleaning the cat box. (My mother’s last
words to me: “I have to go to the bathroom!”) But there is one
other note from Steve with which I will end this
oh-so-reluctantly written piece (which he knew I would have to
do, goddamn it), and it dates from Oct. 3 of last year. He had sent
a “Well fuckin’ done” note to me regarding a tribute to yet
another deceased Her-Ex colleague, Paul Corkery, and I wrote
back, saying he should get off the couch and at least go out for
a walk once or twice a day. I was half-kidding:
“I have this image of you
abandoned by all mankind and family, bloated and passed out
drunk behind closed Venetian blinds, watching CNN all day.
Please disabuse me of this.”
His response:
“Not so. I sleep more
than watching CNN.”
It’s perhaps strange or
presumptuous to say, but Plesa lived on his own terms,
and died on his own terms. Principle and humor to the end. He
made his choices, such as anyone with his illness can. He
had a lot of heartbreak, but he had---and created---a greater
amount of joy. How wonderful it is that he was able to regain
consciousness a few days before the end, and speak with his
parents, and sons, and friends, and know how loved he was.
He went with dignity, in
the wake of too much pain.
Now cracks a noble heart.
Steve at the Her-Ex. |
Young, Beatle-booted Valley dude
and friend. |
Friends of Steve
Steve's Obit
Adrenaline Rush on a Boring Day, by Steve Plesa
Herald-Examiner Memories, by Steve Plesa
Tracing The Beatles' Footsteps Through London, by Steve Plesa
Cybercourting (meeting Steve) by Laurie Kasparian
Anyone wishing to contribute to The Steve Plesa Excellence in
Writing and Journalism Scholarship may do so by sending checks
to:
JEM Foundation
c/o Joseph Morahan
10 Cherry Hills Park Drive
Englewood, Colorado 80113
Simply write 'for Steve' in the memo line. All contributions in
Steve's honor go directly to scholarships for high school
students.
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