Kup's Chicago - Irv Kupcinet [9]
My deadline for the next morning’s first edition is 1:00 P.M. So no later than 11:30 A.M. comes the moment of truth: time to put the column together. Writing, according to my literate friend Red Smith, consists of “placing a blank page in the typewriter and concentrating until little drops of blood appear on your forehead.” To me that is no exaggeration. Though I have met more than five thousand column deadlines, I still cannot pull up my swivel chair and bat out the next day’s piece with ease. Sometimes getting the words to fall into place is harder than it was for the first column in 1943. I must limit myself to approximately a thousand words and I have always three or four times that amount of material.
I start by making an outline. For each of the nine paragraphs into which the column is divided I earmark the material I think will best develop a smooth continuity. As a rule, the most striking news comes first; a variety of other items follows in the form of quotes, quips, and information about people and places and events; for the finale I choose what I think is the day’s best chuckle, in keeping with the old show-business adage, “Always leave ‘em laughing.” As each paragraph is completed, my secretary checks names for accuracy and sends it off to the copy desk. By 1:00 P.M., wiping the last drops of blood from my forehead, I’m finished.
Then I’m off in pursuit of more material, beginning with a lunch date at Fritzel’s, the Tavern Club, or the Pump Room, or a special luncheon or meeting elsewhere. With the help of the headwaiter (another indispensable friend of columnists) I learn who’s who for the day, interviewing by phone if I can’t make the scene in person. Then it’s into the Kupcinet Mambo, table-hopping to buttonhole as many news sources as possible, with time out to greet old friends and fans. In talking, listening, handshaking, and exchanging quips, somehow the news and witticisms pile up. The most interesting I commit to a pocket pad (I fill six a week). But to avoid intruding on conversations, my pencil often doesn’t go into action until I’m behind a pillar, or in a taxi, phone booth, or men’s room.
At three I’m back in the office to check the final galley proof of the column. Then it’s interviews, more phoning, correspondence, and endless miscellany. As other columnists can testify, outsiders have little idea about the ramifications of our job. We need every friend and contact we can make. But friendship is a two-way street. If someone has gone out of his way to help me in an emergency, I naturally will do the same for him, within bounds that won’t compromise my integrity. This may involve getting an item of information, arranging an introduction to someone, or doing even more complicated favors. Once a very good friend phoned from New York and explained that his party hoped to see Sammy Davis, Jr., at the Copacabana, but couldn’t get a reservation. I called Sammy in New York, and he arranged for installation of an extra table for my friend.
At 5:00 P.M., with the morning’s first edition up from the pressroom, I pause to give my column another reading. By 6:00, unless there is a reception or cocktail party to attend, I’m en route home for dinner, a monitoring of any TV shows of special interest, and an hour’s nap.
About 10:00 P.M. I dress. Then, with or without Essee, depending on how she feels, I begin the evening rounds. The Pump Room, Chicago’s mecca for celebrities, usually comes first. An hour or two later we’re off again. The Chez Paree, alas, is no more, but there is plenty