The Inside Dope

THE INSIDE DOPE

IFFY THE DOPESTER

It must have been Candor Week among the star columnists of the daily press. Bob Talbert, the Free Press' supposed hotline to hipdom, devoted his space last Friday to a typically meandering rumination on the significance of his 40th birthday. Bob finally concluded that being 40, in fact, had no significance at all-except for the "new feeling" that "I feel like I've been 40 all my life." That's the most meaningful line we've heard out of Bob in months-maybe that's why he's played such a key part in making the Freep "the paper that puts you to sleep in the morning."

And Fred Girard, the News' major catch to date in its clandestine raid on the Free Press' swinging young reporting staff, candidly described for our benefit the "contemporary reader" that both papers, in fact, are striving desperately to hold on to: "For the most part, the contemporary reader falls between the ages of 21 and 40-something, has a college education, lives in the suburbs, likes to identify the so-called "in" places and activities . . ." etc.

Gee, Fred, it seems to us that you left a few of us out-for example, most of the population of the City of Detroit. Perhaps you feel you can take that for granted?

We all know, of course, that both of our wonderful dailies are written for white readers anyway, and that the great circulation war is focused on the suburbs. In half the neighborhoods in the City, according to a recent Iffy poll, you can't get either newspaper delivered to your door. Then again, you aren't missing much.

It's interesting to see, at any rate, that the dailies have finally awakened to the fact that young readers with any kind of sense have been deserting them in droves for several years now. But from where we sit, it's gonna take a lot more than Talbert's McKuenesque ramblings or Girard's hot features on "where to get two big drinks for the price of one during Happy Hour" to bring them back. It goes a little deeper than that, fellas.

In another division of Detroit's bustling media industry, we ran into Dave Torbi at Jimmy Carter headquarters at the Sheraton Cadillac on the night of the primary. Dave had been keeping busy the previous few weeks coordinating Mr. Peanut's Michigan campaign effort prior to the arrival of the national people. But on primary night, he was back at his usual job, reporting from Carter HQ's for radio station WOMCFM. "Objective journalism," anyone?

Speaking of the primary, we had a deadline to meet on the fateful night, or else we surely would have spent it all observing the wonders of electoral politics. Carter's supporters appeared to be an odd mixture of rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed young ingenues in Villager blouses and down-home Georgia operators easily recognized by their pot bellies and white shoes. Then there was a mysterious collection of bouffanted Southern ladies in white styrofoam Carter hats and white high heels, of course.

Udall HQ's, which had set up shop right next to us here in the lovely Leland House, was frequented by a gathering of enthusiastic young swingers in leisure suits and long dresses, who drove us to distraction all night with football cheers adapted to political purposes and occasional "news" of the sensational variety, such as the "fact" that Udall was carrying every county in Michigan and was on his way to a victory of landslide proportions.

As it was, of course, Big Mo's legions had a lot more to celebrate. And since much has been said about how it happened-but to our chagrin, nobody mentioned the fact that Mo had chosen the Leland's famed "Pound of Colombian Room" in which to await the returns. We did, after all, draw the winners' names in the very same place not very long ago, and although alcohol was the intoxicant of choice on May 19, we like to think that Mo must have picked up on the lingering positive vibes.