Greene Day

I used to be an avid reader of a man named Bob Greene, who wrote a column for the Chicago newspaper for many years, and who cultivated a print version of Charles Kuralt-sort of image, a man of the people who covered the lethal adulteration of Tylenol capsules as well as writing stories of everyday people dealing with everyday gains and losses. His career ran well over 30 years, and one of the most memorable stories he wrote concerned a man who took one of Greene's columns and had it published in his army base newsletter, on the grounds that he wanted a little recognition and was not able to write with the flowing clarity that Greene brought to the page.

He went and met with the man, flattered by being copied, but puzzled over why. That was the kind of thing that he wrote about day after day.

Bob Greene was one of the early exponents of participatory journalism. For example, while it might be interesting to write about life on the road with a major rock band - in this case Alice Cooper in 1973 - the focus changes when you're actually performing with the band.  Greene didn't need a guitar to do that; the members of the band on stage with Alice didn't even play their own instruments. The music was provided by musicians offstage and the drama was supplied by Alice himself, acting out his macabre Grand Guignol-style show.

And Greene played Santa Claus in the show, the rousing finale of which featured Santa Claus being pummeled by five musicians.

Hey, it was the 70s! What can I tell you?

Greene also turned his high school diary into a sort of nonfiction novel called "Be True To Your School," he became an associate member of Jan And Dean, the 60s surf group, he wrote about his family and his daughter's birth and turning 50, and he wrote a lot about The Greatest Generation.

It seemed like he would hang around long enough to become one of the Grand Old Men of newspaper writing. Instead, horribly, he was revealed as one of the Dirty Old Men of newspaper writing.

Greene's career crashed and burned in 2002, after a young woman brought it to the attention of the newspaper publishers that he had been in the habit of luring young women who sought to interview him about his techniques into unsanctified congresses in a hotel room that he maintained for just that purpose.

Four months later, his wife, who had been ill for some time, passed away.  He has not written for newspapers or magazines since. He wrote a book about the sad slow death of newspapers, and of his days with Jan And Dean, and a book about the five living presidents, and one about catching up with his high school friends.  None of these books were anywhere near the best-seller list.

In his heyday, he would have been all over the story of a man such as he, who had it all and tossed it away in the name of debauching young women who came to him for career guidance.

He has not written a word about that. I'm sorry that I had to.