Was the fair beer fridge real? It’s all really a blur
The Ex is on, which means it’s time for the media to cover the Ex, which means rookie reporters will be trolling the grounds for stories.
I’m telling you right now, they have no idea what it used to be like — and I can say that because I have no idea what it used to be like, and I was there. Almost.
Usually, it’s the summer intern assigned the Ex stories. It’s a rite of passage. If they sent a 65-year-old reporter, you’d be thinking, ‘What did he do to deserve it?’ But that wouldn’t happen because there aren’t any 65-year-old reporters. They expire in their 50s (if they last that long) — old cheese past its best before date. Mouldy, bitter, nasty, resentful cheese. But where was I?
Oh, yes, “fun.” Ex reporting is supposed to be a “fun” assignment. It’s not life-and-death, not controversial (unless they’re making an elephant jump from a diving board) — just food and rides and entertainment. But it remains a “fun” assignment as opposed to a fun assignment because you still have to dig up a story, make it interesting and get it done by deadline. A story on pig racing takes as much work as a bail hearing.
I know this because I myself covered the Ex as a rookie reporter. I’d always loved the Ex, so getting to “work” there was a treat. At least, I thought that until veteran newsman Art Robinson sent me out to do a story on Ex food and gave me two $5 bills to pay for it. How was I supposed to do a food story with 10 measly bucks? What could I get? The famous half-a-foot-long hotdog?
Resentfully, I played the cheapskate. I forgot about looking for the most interesting food and went after the cheapest. Luckily, two booths that year had bread and jam. I ate like a king — the king of breakfast.
The challenge turned out to be fun. Not “fun.” But fun. Writing it was a blast and the story ran with the best headline in the history of the Starphoenix: “Frugal Fuller finds fair food filling.” I do believe my career peaked that day. Great. Only 30 more years to go.
But the thing that made me realize I’d missed the golden age of Ex reporting was the media trailer. First of all, I didn’t know there was a media trailer until I came upon it. Second of all, it had a fully stocked beer fridge. Stop. The. Presses.
I thought I’d found a secret tree house. But then a punky kid janitor the paper had just hired sauntered in and cracked a cold one. It turned out to be a careerlimiting move.
Oh, the media trailer. I could only imagine reporters over the decades banging on typewriters, churning out stories on two-headed goats and kitchen gadgets, sucking back beer until they felt they’d got even for not being allowed to take vacation. Good times.
But then, just as I came of age, the beer fridge trailer was gone. It was like a mirage. Society entered a supposedly more enlightened era when drinking at work was discouraged.
Who knows what other perks the old vets enjoyed? Valet parking ? Complimentary casino chips? VIP seating at the horse races? Fine. I hope they had “fun.” Just don’t tell me they had an all-you-can-eat corndog buffet.