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ANS Dl Sew A ne rh SE SATE Snot Pc StF i ¥ PERE SES Fo = NN FIN ne > C-- Cr rity el sy LEST ORY ¥ LOS AC RY Aap ak Ad ON IN DELS ~F pA andl Ted Niet WAM AEE vy - » A |. EEE EEE] UR TET AREY Lr ditorio Sa HS EE \ vo Lt The Newspaper Game Last week, newspaper readers in two Canadian cities awoke to find that major daily papers had ceased publication. The Ottawa Journal shut the doors first, and a . few hours later came the announcement that the Winnipeg Tribune would publish its last edition. It is no coincidence that the Jounal was owned by Thomson Newspapers and the Tribune by Southam Inc., and the two surviving daily papers in Ottawa and Winnipeg are owned by the same two corpora- tions. The news of the closures had scarcely been made public when there were suggestions that the federal government may launch a probe into the circum- stances. Be that as It may, and despite the fact that control of this country's large daily press Is increa- singly concentrated in the hands of two corporations, newspaper shut-downs are nothing new, and there likely will be more of the same. The truth of the matter is that because of economics, it has become almost impossible for most Canadian cities to support two or more money- making daily papers. Toronto, of course, is an exception, where three dailies flourish. But, there are now only four Canadian cities - Toronto, Edmonton, Calgary and St. John's - which have competing dailies under different ownership. Specialists in communications theory (not to mention hard-nosed economists) have predicted the demise of the daily paper as we now know it. There are several crucial reasons. The first is _ the intense competition for the advertising dollar. Papers must compete for the ad bucks with radio and TV, magazines, the countless specialist publications which have hit the market in recent years; and the very large weekly newspapers which are experien- cing success in the suburbs. Faced with tough ad competition, the dailies are also feeling the pinch of rising costs for such things as newsprint (which they gobble in great quantities) production, and distribution of the finished product. Another factor is the changing public attitudes towards the kind of information they want in their lives, and what kind of package they want that information in. Despite the fact that most people are spending less time at the work-place, more and more are finding they don't have the time to read a thick paper each day, six or seven days a week. The loss of advertising and readers, coupled with ever-increasing costs is making it tougher all the time for a large daily to stay economically viable. The Ottawa Journal and Winnipeg Tribune are just two examples. Last year, they lost $3.4 and $3 million respectively, and while there are arguments to be made that any major city needs two competing newspapers to serve the public well, losses such as these cannot be absorbed forever. The closing of these two newspapers is regret- table, not just because of their long and honourable tradition, oir the fact that close to 750 employees learned abruptly that they no longer have [obs, but also because they are part of an on-going trend which will see more daily papers shut their doors and presses. The Fair When It Rains For the first time ever, the annual Port Perry Fair was a three-day event this year, and as luck would have it, scattered showers during all three days put something of a damper on the 1980 Fair. Fair organizers were naturally disappointed that the weather may have kept crowds smaller than hoped for, but aside from that, they said they were pleased with the way things went. : The Port Perry Fair has a long tradition in this community of bringing people together. Although new events and attractions are being added each year (and 1980 was no exception) the agriculture aspects of the Fair remain the focal point and serve as a reminder to all of us that farming is a vibrant and vital part of this community. While the rain didn't seem to want to go away during the three days of the Fair, it didn't really dampen the spirits of those who did brave the elements: organizers, participants and spectators. We salute them all for making the best of conditions less than ideal, and hope that when the 1981 Fair rolls around skies are a little brighter. bill BACKYARD BONANZA No essay this week. No controlled, clear, coherent, concise evaluation of some piece of trivia, as is my wont. It's quite difficult to keep one's brains unscrambled in a summer like this. One day you are gasping around like a newly-caught fish, trying to extract enough oxygen from the humidity to remain alive. Next day you are pounded on the head, with hail - yes hail - or you go down to the basement and there's a foot of water in it. First couple of times, I mopped it up. Now, we just stay out of the basement until the indoor swimming-pool has dried up, by evaporation. Once again, we have discussed at great length, what to do about the "patio". We call it that for want of a better word. We have two French doors leading onto the patio. The patio is a pile or rocks, ranging from three pounds to two hundred pounds. It has no known purpose that we've ever been able to discover. It has no geometric or any other kind of design. It looks like smiley something a cross-eyed architect, well in to the grape, assembled one night with the aid of a bulldozer and a couple of bibulous, but mightly strong companions, in the belief that he was re-creating the Pantheon, in Rome. And if you walk up the back path at night, . with no lights on, one of the protruding rocks can give a hell of a rip on the shin. Scattered among the patio rocks are bricks and half bricks, pulled from the wall of the house by a vine that is a herbivorous Incredible Hulk. By day, it is a thing of beauty, making the old house look. like something out of a book of Georgian prints of stately homes. A It must be at night that it turns into a monster, snatching bricks with its octopus- like tentacles and stuffing them into its voracious maw, except for those that dribble out of the corner of its mouth onto the patio. And let's not speak of nights. Four mornings in a row I went out for my post-prandial coffee and morning paper. Four mornings in a row, I dashed back into the house, white-faced, shouting things like: "Call the cops. Get the fire brigade. The vandals are here, and maybe the Goths. The Martians have landed. Gimme some brandy." Now my back lawn is not exactly pristine and perfect, a classic greensward. Let's say you couldn't bowl on it, unless you were using square bowling balls. It has its little ups and downs, like the rest of us. Some almost of ski-hill potentiality. But it's mine, and I like it. How would you like to go out and discover that a herd of elephants had been grazing on your back lawn, during the small hours? There were divots there that Jack Nicklaus couldn't make with a nine iron. There were holes that looked as though they'd been made by Mighty Mole. There was turf and grass and dung all over the place. It looked like a used car lot from which all the cars had been lifted by a mighty magnet. Second time I saw it, I was cooler. Elephants make bigger droppings than that, and there's been no news report of a band of rogue elephants. I figured it was horses. But then I thought, horses eat grass, they don't kick holes in it. Third morning, I knew it was the dogs next door, a couple of beautiful Pinchyour- man Dobers or something. But they're perfectly trained and kept in at night. Finally, I knew. It was a kid I'd failed last June, getting back at me in some twisted fashion. I rapidly ran through the group, mentally, and came up against a brick wall. They were all too lazy to do such a prodigious amount of damage. Next we thought of coons. There are some around. But no self-respecting coon is going to be out there digging like a dingbat when all he has to do is whip the top off the garbage pail and regale himself on water- melon rinds and tag-ends of pizza. Fifth night, we left on the outside light and Isat up all night with a brick in one hand and a hockey stick in the other. Nothing happened except that I fell asleep about two a.m. and dropped the brick on my bare foot. Finally, as I should have done in the first place, I brought my neighbour, a man of eminent good sense and wide knowledge, over to view the vandalism. He looked at mé pityingly, as he so often does. But he's not brutal. He led my gently but accurately, as a seeing-eye dog does with a blind person. "You've had your lawn sprinkler on? Quite a bit?" : - "Well sure. My grandsons turned it on back in July. Iturned the tap off, but not the main valve. It's in the cellar. But there's been just a little trickle coming out of it for the last month." : "Skunks," he stated succintly. "The water brought up those white grubs and the skunks went after them." 1 wanted to give him an argument but I couldn't find a thing to say. If it wouldn't be a rotten pun, IT might admit I felt a bit sheepish. Sheep were the only animals I hadn't thought of. Anyway, the water is turned off and the skunks are off to ravage some other plot. I learned something, an achievement these days. And I have one more mark on the lengthy tally my grandboys must answer to one day. fi 1 V3 ETT ES -- --------