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Monday, October 20, 2025

EDITORIAL: Gone are the Days of Real, Gritty Journalism

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Whatever happened to good ol’ ⁣fashioned newspaper journalism? The kind where a reporter‌ would pound the pavement,‍ not some keys, to sniff out a ‌story. A time when you would physically pick up‌ a newspaper, inhale the unique scent of newsprint, and have a tangible connection to the words ‌in your hands. These were the days when ink ⁤on fingers was⁢ a badge‌ of honor and newspapers were ubiquitous, ​their rustling sound a comforting⁤ background score at homes and public spaces alike. Maybe⁤ I’m just stuck in my ⁢stubborn perspective here in ⁣Schenectady,‌ but I remember my mother’s calloused hands from ⁢decades ⁢of‍ factory ‍work turning ⁤those newsprint pages. It⁢ was then‌ that we all ‌felt connected, not just to​ the‍ world, but to ⁢the people in our own community. ​

Gone​ is that Schenectady of yesterday. ‌The heydays of General Electric and American Locomotive are receding further and further into the ​past, just like⁣ the era of great journalism. The high-street stores ‍may have turned into boutique shops, but the ghosts of their former selves echo through‌ the buildings. ‌People used ⁢to be‌ elbow-to-elbow downtown, ‌keeping up with local affairs that were reported in depth ‌by ​our local paper.​ Now they’re face-deep in their ​phones, digesting bite-sized updates devoid ​of depth, ⁢scrolling ⁢without a semblance of contact or conversation.

I remember ⁢cutting​ my journalistic teeth under⁢ the discerning eyes of ⁤Frank Sullivan.⁤ He was an⁢ institution within⁣ our newsroom – a man who always had a lead ⁢on a ​story and‌ wouldn’t ​stop till he‌ had ‍dug up every nugget of truth. I was ⁢an⁣ eager 20-year-old then. He would make me tail him across town, chasing leads, ‍meeting more people in ‌a day than many ‌meet in a ​week. ⁤He was⁢ no​ Pulitzer⁤ Prize-winning journalist, but‌ he had something that I perceive is lacking in today’s ​news world. Frank⁢ had‌ grit. While‍ he ‍didn’t⁢ have the opportunity to share stories of our⁤ town⁣ with the world, his work, intricate and detailed, became encompassed‌ in the woven tapestry‌ of Schenectady’s very ⁤history.

I’ve been in⁤ this racket for more than‌ 30 ‍years. Hell, I’ve been fortunate enough to see my own byline floating ‌around nowadays, thanks in no ‌small part to hazelnut coffee and the nightly lullaby of a printing press.‍ But the printers have ‌gone quiet, the newsrooms eerily⁤ silent,⁢ leaving me longing for that adrenaline rush ⁣that came with late-breaking stories ‍and looming deadlines.

In today’s‍ fast-paced ‍digital landscape, “accuracy” ⁢is ⁤often the first casualty. The advent of Tweets and blogs peddles speed at⁤ the ​expense of depth. It’s all about⁤ being first, not thorough. ⁣Flash steals focus from⁤ the real essence. ‍Substance surrenders to sensationalism.

Just the other day,​ I was asked about WikiLeaks by one⁢ of my grandkids. Bethany is all​ of ⁤12, and ⁢it’s​ admirable that she‌ wants to understand this world. ⁤I told her, “Wikileaks isn’t journalism,⁣ darling. It’s just data dumping. Sure, it might uncover some truths.⁢ But journalism is about more than just revealing.⁤ It’s about⁢ understanding ⁣and explaining. It’s ‌about storytelling. ‍You remember how I tell you bedtime stories, right? It’s ⁤similar—that’s what sincere journalists aim to ⁢do.”

At ‍the heart of ⁣it all is a sense of community. Schenectady is miles away from the⁤ bustling newsrooms‌ of New York City or Washington D.C., but our stories are just as real, just as ‍important, if ​given‌ due weightage. Is it too much to ask for ⁢more than just a cursory ⁤once-over ‍of our local happenings? Who’s capturing the essence of‍ the local high school football ⁣game or⁣ telling the human interest ‌stories that‌ once graced our diner walls​ and coffee ⁤shop corkboards?

My name‌ is Brian McCarthy.⁣ I’ve spent ​my life telling stories. But more importantly, ⁣I’ve spent my life listening to them. Stories ‍of pride⁣ and despair, ambition and setback,‌ stories that hide in plain sight in our beloved​ Schenectady. These stories​ deserved to be‌ nurtured and told‍ meticulously without becoming a quick⁤ click online, only to be forgotten ​the⁤ next minute. But the landscape of journalism has shifted dramatically and I fear, irrevocably.

Maybe all these reflections are just the musings of an old man.‌ But I am not⁣ clean ⁢out of stubbornness yet. ⁤There’s still fight left in‍ this grizzled old reporter. Because while the pulp machines may ⁢have run out, the hunger for‌ stories never will. Even⁤ now⁤ as the rust sets in, our stories deserve to be etched, to⁣ preserve the essence of ⁤what once was, now ‍woefully replaced by an ‌unforgiving ‍world of digital‌ snippets.

But for now, I’ll rest my ‍weary hands, worn down by the​ pen and the press ⁣but driven by the⁢ spirit of sharing stories, ever optimistic that ⁢they⁤ will find a way to be told, as they should⁣ be. Someday, I⁣ hope, they will dust ​off‌ the‌ covers ‍and remember‍ what real journalism was about: ‍Unhurried souls ⁢pouring​ themselves into stories ⁢read by folks who, for a moment,​ held pieces of the​ world on their ink-stained‌ hands. Days of ⁤black⁤ and white and ‍read all ⁣over. Are those times truly over? Only time⁢ will tell. But I hope we remember how ​things used to⁤ be. For the sake of the stories that are waiting to be heard.

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Brian McCarthy
Brian McCarthy
I'm Brian McCarthy! At your service to offer traditionally informed perspective on today's issues. Some call it out of touch; I call it time-honored wisdom.
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