Mrs. Farley's Son

I hope Chris Farley’s mom Mary Anne had a nice Mother’s Day last Sunday. I hope her four living children called from wherever on earth they were to say they love her, sent her cards that made her giggle and flowers that make her happy. If anybody was nearby, I hope they stopped over with the grandkids and fussed over her more than usual. And I hope these bright spots in the day brought her joy, because you have to believe Chris Farley’s mom was in pain. I imagine it was a quiet pain, the kind you feel down deep, the kind that washes over you, then weighs down like an anchor on the tips of your toes. The kind of pain that can only come over a mother who has been made to endure the death of a son—a young son, a loving son, a smart and funny son.

Mrs. Farley’s son was the kind of famous only a handful of humans get to be. Rock-star famous. Some Saturday nights Chris Farley was the funniest damn guy on the planet—at least to the parts of the planet that aired Saturday Night Live and the people on the planet who could stay up late enough to watch him. How somebody could get into a character the way he did—with such “gusto,” as one person who worked with him back in his Madison improv days put it—is the stuff of genius.

The Chris Farley Show, released in hardcover by Viking last week, describes in detail the funnyman’s rise to renown. But to the Farley family’s credit the story does not shy away from the ugly tailspin into obliteration that followed. To be honest, it sort of feels like E! True Hollywood Story with a purpose. Chris’s biography is at times so sad it’s almost too hard to go there with him—even in the pages of a book. But his brother Tom, who co-wrote the book, did. He went there. He says it took him ten years, but he did it. And so I think you should, too.

I promise you won’t regret it. To be honest, I had no personal or professional investment in the book (see the blog before this one). I only know Tom a little, though I think he’s a really nice, warm, well-meaning guy. I certainly don’t know the rest of the Farleys or anybody particularly close them. My closest claim is a friend who grew up a few blocks away from their home in Maple Bluff. That and the time I stumbled into a Northwoods bar to find Chris holding court on a visit to the summer camp he and his brothers cherished. It’s a memory I’ll never forget.

As for Chris’s career, I wasn’t all that impressed with the guy the few years he was an uber-celebrity. Hated Tommy Boy. Still do. Other than the fact that I’ve spent the last fourteen years living in his hometown, and for the last eight I’ve edited a magazine named for that city, I didn’t have any compelling reason to connect with the story—and yet I devoured the extremely well-edited string of recollections from the people who knew him like it was my first meal in a week. SNL captain Lorne Michaels said part of Chris’s attraction was you felt like you knew him. But after reading the book, it’s clear I didn’t. I had no idea the depths of his talent or the sad, frightening toll his addiction took on him and his loved ones.

After speaking with Tom yesterday during a taping of Neil Heinen’s For the Record, I came away feeling like the book was cathartic for him, and that it’s given him a renewed energy to pursue his noble efforts to reach kids battling addiction through the Chris Farley Foundation he runs. Tom turned me on to one more reason to read, appreciate and share this book with others: it can help heal people. Read the speech Chris gave at the Hazelden rehab facility during his three years of sobriety, then turn the pages that lead to his death just a few years later. It’s a real wakeup call to how deep and devastating it is to battle alcohol and drugs.

Tom told us that when Chris was sober, “nobody could touch him.” The skits etched into our collective memory, such as motivational speaker Matt Foley and rabid fan Chris fawning over Paul McCartney, were crafted and performed when the man was healthy. When Chris’s mom could sleep at night.

Everything Happens for a Reason

It took me a while to get over being snubbed by Tom Farley’s publisher, Viking Press. Okay I’m still not over it, but, anyway, a few months ago I asked about excerpting The Chris Farley Show, the new oral history out by Tom and Tanner Colby (he's the guy who co-wrote the John Belushi biography). They said no, that I couldn’t have at anything in the book until after Playboy’s excerpt came out in May. Niiiiiiiiiice. Because I am THE GOLD MEDALIST in the Holding Grudges Olympics (just ask my spouse), I decided I was going to let the book release occasion pass with nary a written word. But then I ran into Jodi Cohen last Friday and I realized why Tom couldn’t secretly break the Viking Press rules for Chris’ hometown magazine—a magazine that put him on the cover in 1994. The reason is, duh, because Madison Magazine is supposed to write about Chris’ early career in Madison. And Jodi, who co-founded and directed Ark's second improv company Animal Crackers, where Chris got his start, is my conduit to those years. Off we go.

What’s your history with the Ark Improvisational Theater (whose most famous members were Farley and Joan Cusack)? I think I joined the Ark in ’84. They were still at Club de Wash and it was before we moved into 220 North Bassett. I was there until it closed in 1991. 220 N. Bassett was a Brinks truck garage that (Ark founders) Dennis Kern and Elaine Eldridge rented and turned into a black-box theater. I started out doing improv and then, when we got the theater, we did started doing sketch comedy and musical revues. Then Dennis and Elaine asked me to direct a (a new company) Animal Crackers, and so we auditioned people. That’s the first time I met Chris. I didn’t know until the book came out that he had come to the theater the night before and talked to Dennis.

In the new Chris Farley book, which is basically a string of quotes—an oral history—that tells his fascinating life story, you get 109 words on page 57. Really up until I had read the book I had very much packaged and just robotically talked about Chris, what I knew about Chris, my experience with Chris. My standard response was, “Chris Farley was in my improv company.” People were like, “Ohhhhhhhhhh! Oh my God what was that like?” It’s like, “Well, it’s hard to be with somebody who’s an addict.” Improv is all about trust and it was always an adventure because I never knew what shape he was going to be in the night of the show. The other thing I would always say, and this still remains true is that he was a really great improviser. And once he became famous and once you saw him on SNL or in the movies you never really got to see what was so great about his comic genius.

What was so great about his comic genius? He was really physical and he could think on his feet. Reading the book, that was kind of the beginning of my feeling the heartbreak of Chris not being on the planet anymore. It really hit me. It was like, "He's gone?" And he was so young and he was really talented. I feel like when he got to be at SNL and in his movies he seems kind of two-dimensional. You know it’s the difference between live theater and something that’s videotaped, it’s not the same. He was a great scene partner. People did get to see him being a physical improviser in the moment. What was so fun improvising with him is how his physicality would manifest in whatever was happening in the scene.

Do you have a specific memory? I remember we would do these characters where we were performing surgery using these teeny, tiny instruments that we would use. He’s so big so the contrast was so funny. And he would take it really seriously, which makes the comedy all the more heightened—that he would really commit to whatever was happening. The other thing was I remember something about him barbecuing and doing this character of Mr. Carruthers and “Yeah, come on over.” It was very much a joyful, jovial character. On SNL all that stuff is scripted so you don’t get to see a lot of the joy or a lot of the creativity that would come out that you do in improv. He was very physical as an improviser and we would always do this one beat in a certain scene where I would run across the stage and jump into his arms. For all the garbage that went on off stage … he had a lot of gusto as a scene partner.

Dennis Kern talks about Chris’ motivational speaker character, Matt Foley, getting its start at the Ark. I don’t remember that. That character scared me when I would see it on TV. It just felt too out of control. And you know he was really trying to pimp his scene partners by either varying off the script or just breaking the boundaries. I do remember watching them crack up, which is always fun. I remember at the Ark, Todd Brown, one of the improvisers, would do “Elvis Before.” And then Chris would come out in some white jumpsuit and do “Elvis After”—after all the drugs and the drinking.

Brian Stack, who was at the Ark with you and Chris, says in the book, “He could do the same thing fifty times and somehow always make it funny." I think part of Chris being a good improviser is his total commitment to whatever was happening in the scene. … I always think comedy basically comes down to taking something really mundane and you add something bizarre. Or you do something really bizarre in a really mundane way. It’s the contrast and that you’re not expecting it, and then when you really commit to it, it just heightens it all the more.

There are a lot of similarities to Chris in the way that you use humor. You wrote, “Humor is what helps me get through, get by, get around, get over things and people … keeps me from digging around on the inside.” That’s Chris. All I have is my own experience. What was so sad about reading the book was the depth of the struggles that Chris had. I think about what it means to live a self-examined life and what it means to just stay at the surface. I know that I’m really sensitive. The good things are really great. The bad things are horrible and I feel like I need to leave the country and I’m going to go live on the side of a mountain and eat a grain of rice that’s lifted up to me by a bucket every day. That’s the ultimate escape fantasy. The thing about being sensitive is that we feel everything. I had no idea about Chris’ OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). It just seems like there was so much suffering and no matter how many people tried to help he was alone with it. I didn’t understand about alcoholism and I didn’t understand about addiction back when I worked with him. In my ignorance I just thought, “You can’t do that," or, "That won’t work," and I didn’t understand what I was up against. As the director, I was the authority figure and Chris was not happy with my response to his habits.

In hindsight what might you have done differently? I didn’t understand how addiction works so I didn’t understand the loyalty to using and what happens when you interrupt that or get in the way of that.

Were you writing for the troupe? I'd written some sketches that the improv group performed. The first thing I ever wrote was with Lois Nowicki, who’s since passed away, and Nancy Deutsch, who lives in San Francisco. The three of us did a show together called “Just Listen, It’s NukeSpeak,” where we did a series of characters, monologues and scenes. It was this very sweet three-person show. I remember Chris was living in Chicago and came back to town and saw the show when he came to the theater to say hello to folks. He had broken his foot. He was on crutches, which I read about how that happened in the book. I remember him being in the lobby one night. We didn’t get along off stage so he’d be very aloof, very cool, and said, “That was really good.” And I was very icy, very aloof, and said, “Thank you.” Just dagger, dagger, dagger, dagger, back and forth.

Is your current improv company Spin Cycle a mature, grownup version of Animal Crackers? I’m still doing short-form improv. Everything I learned back then is what I still do. I very much have Dennis and Elaine’s sensibility. We weren’t really encouraged to do gutter humor. The thinking behind that was anybody can do gutter humor. It's an easy choice in a scene. And what I've learned since is that it never serves the scene. Somebody will grab focus for a laugh or a joke but it never really moves anything along. Also we were encouraged not to swear. I feel a little bit prudish about improv that way. Elaine and Dennis had theater backgrounds. We would do a game called theater styles, and I would read Chekhov and Shaw and Ibsen and Williams, so that when somebody called those things out I knew what those plays were. There was so much theater that occurred in the improv and then in the sketches. I remember we were rehearsing a sketch and Elaine said, “Who brought the samovar?" and I was like, “What the hell is a samovar? I don’t even know what this is but I’m supposed to bring one.”

You wrote in your blog: “Real humor has little to do with telling jokes and everything to do with connecting with others.” I think with anything done well it looks easier than it is. I think that telling stories is really age-old and it's how we connect with each other. I keep thinking that Chris, in his own way, with all of his shtick and everything that went on, he was such a great storyteller. He used all of his body and everything that he had got used in the communication when he was able to do that.

Your writing makes me laugh out loud. I get such joy out of it. Thank you. When I’ve written something that I like, I love to re-read it. I love to let it alone and then come back to it. It’s nice to find it again. I always encourage people who are writers to take improv because you’re working on your writing skills. It’s very much writing in the moment. You are called on to invent things and write on the spot without the censor. And when you’re improvising you really have to keep things moving. I think it’s great training for anybody that writes.

You wear lots of hats in the work that you do. I think about us being human “doings” and us being human “beings.” I’m a writer. I’m a storyteller. I’m an improviser. I’m an artist. I’m a creator. I’m a comedienne. Those are the labels. And then I think about what I do. I do improv. I do keynote speaking. I do motivational speaking. I do training. I teach. When I think about what’s most important to me, I really think it’s art in whatever way it shows up. When I’m performing I feel like this is what I’m meant to do–when it’s going well, I should say. When it’s happening and it’s clicking there’s nothing else like it. I feel like this is why I’m on the planet this time around. And then when I’m writing and the writing goes well and the writing is well received, I think, “This is my real work!” I think it all has to do with offering something and being received in whatever format that is. I think I know how to do that best when it comes to creating art.

Finally, Jodi, please finish these sentences…

After Russ Feingold came to my one-woman show... I finally realized that we would never job share.
The difference between being funny and writing funny is... being funny doesn’t necessarily involve sitting down, writing funny is all about the editing. This is my final answer after three edits. Make that four edits. Five edits.
What I really love is... making art that is well received by people.
What I really hate is... feeling disconnected from people.

Jodi’s spiffy bio: Jodi Cohen translates how the principles of ‘Improvisational Thinking’ impact our everyday lives, liberate our innate talents and awaken the muscles that allow us to connect, collaborate and generate big ideas. Jodi teaches ‘Improvisational Thinking’ strategies to an increasing number of business and community leaders to afford them new ways to think, respond and behave. These simple, profound and user-friendly ideas inspire improved performance, increased productivity and rampant innovation among participants. Jodi’s studied and taught improv for twenty-five years and is artistic director of SPIN CYCLE Improv Troupe.

What Moe Knows

Newly minted Wisconsin State Journal columnist (and former Mad Mag editor) Doug Moe talks about life before, during and after The Capital Times

How’s the new gig? What’s different? For 11 years when I was doing the column, I always wrote a day ahead and then would go home. If my eyes had snapped open in the middle of the night and I thought, “Oh, how could you write that?” or, “Gosh, I hope I spelled that guy’s name right,” I could tweak it. Even in the days of two editions of The Cap Times, the first edition didn’t go until 9:30 in the morning. When it went down to one edition you had ’til noon to tweak it. Now the paper hits the driveway at 5:30 and there it is! That was scary the first couple of weeks. The other thing, honestly, is the expanded readership. I think most writers would like that. We signed on a lot of the former daily Cap Times subscribers and so [subscriptions] are up around 100,000 now daily.

Are you thinking differently about how your write your column? Not really. I try to keep it very local. I try to mix it up. I wouldn’t want to have three sports in a row, two histories in a row. I would love to have five funny ones in a row because it’s the hardest thing in the world to do. My first reaction to an idea is, can I make this humorous? It’s really hard. There’s a line in that great Peter O’Toole movie My Favorite Year, where he’s an actor and he says, “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.”

Dave Barry makes a lot of money for a reason. Right, and The Onion is the only print newspaper that’s rapidly expanding its print edition in cities all over the country.

Some people might not know the distance you traveled from one newsroom to the other. [Ed's Note: The State Journal nabbed Moe from The Cap Times—both papers are in the same building on Fish Hatchery Road) What was that experience like? Without getting into the whole thing, that was tough in early February when [Cap Times management] had the meeting and they basically told virtually everybody to reapply for their jobs. And so that started the process for me. Granted, I guess it seems kind of unusual because I’m the only one that did move over. But it happened, and I’m still friends with The Cap Times folks. … Every day it seems more natural to be over here. It was and continues to be ... tough isn’t really the word … it’s unsettled, you know, I think it still is, around the building a little bit.

How did you get started in journalism? I got out of college in 1979, and I didn’t have any loans to pay off. My girlfriend at the time was living in Portage and working for the Portage Daily Register, so I moved up there and it was very cheap to live and I launched a freelance career. I wrote like a maniac for everybody that would pay me. I got a book contract in 1984 to collaborate with a crazy football player named Lyle Alzado on his autobiography. Then in 1986, [Madison Magazine publishers] the Selks created an associate editor position for me, which was really just a writing position, and I did that for five years and became editor in 1991 and stayed through ’97.

What were those years like when you were trying to capture Madison in Madison Magazine? It was great. I think on the financial end they had good years and bad years. … But I was shielded from that. I was just a writer. But even when Gail was publisher and I was editor, she never burdened me with that, which was nice. I wrote a lot. I wrote most of the covers for an extended period, or at least the lead stories. And I wrote a fun column that’s not a whole lot different that what I do in the paper—we called it “Hanging Out.” And then I did some press criticism, which drove ’em nuts out here at the newspaper.

Tell us about your book career, starting with the one back in the '80s. That one, by the way, was never published. I’ve started revisiting it as a biography. His name was Lyle Alzado and his agent lived in Madison. Lyle became the poster child for steroids because he had denied using them for many, many years, and then ended up getting brain cancer and blaming steroids. The medical community was split but he died at 42. It was just a crazy experience collaborating with the guy. The first line of the new manuscript is: “On the night of the day I flew two thousand miles to move into a house with Lyle Alzado, he moved out.” He had a horrible fight with his wife, whom he was breaking up with. I’m cowering under the guest bed, and they’re screaming at each other.

My first [book] was the Royko biography in 1999. I collaborated on a biography of [Madison architect] Marshall Erdman that his family financed [Uncommon Sense: The Life of Marshall Erdman]. The UW boxing book came out in ’04, the column collection a couple of years ago, and now this fall I’ve got a new one, Favre: His 20 Greatest Games [Big Earth Publishing]. I just got a note yesterday from the publisher, they’re really happy with it.

When you sit down to write, what motivates you? Really, in winter, it’s nice to have something to do. Wit this one, there was a lot of research to do first. I managed to get tapes or DVDs of all the games that I’d picked. So then you watch the games and take notes. That’s arduous. What I always tell people is—maybe it sounds simplistic and is easier said than done—but the truth of the matter is if you do two or three pages a day, in six months you’ve got a 400-page manuscript.

Do you have a book you’ve always wanted to do? The Alzado biography, with all the steroid implications, could be important. But the great unfinished story is Leo Burt and the Sterling Hall bombing.

Do you have theories about what happened to Burt? No more than anybody else. I identified him as the Unabomber in Madison Magazine six months before they caught the real one.

Are you expecting the [conversation] about whether or not those 20 Favre games you’ve chosen are really the greatest? I think that’s probably one of the reasons they came up with the idea is that it will generate a lot of controversy or at least discussion. I tried to pick games that had some larger implications other than that he’d played extremely well because he played well a lot of times. I was able to pick the obvious one that people always mention first is the Monday night game after his father died. He played heroically under extreme circumstances. I did the game where he came back after he admitted his painkiller addition. The publisher said [I] managed to capture the arc of his life cast inside these 20 games. That’s what I was shooting for. Like the Monday night Denver game this year when his wife was in the press box and had just decided to come forward [with her book] and so that gave me the chance to write about their relationship. I picked the last game in County Stadium, where Brett scored on the last-second scramble run in the second or third year. It gave me the chance to talk about the Packers history in Milwaukee and the decision to move out. I interviewed Bob Harlan because he was the guy who made that tough call.

When you edited the magazine how hard was it to decide what to write about? When I became editor my goal was to have the best mix of stories I possibly could.

What was it like finding good writers? Some months are better than others, but like you, sometimes you get lucky. A guy named Dwight Allen moved to town from the New Yorker. So immediately I assigned him a column on Roundy Coughlin, who was the hayseed, colorful, widely read sports columnist for the State Journal. He wrote a column called “Roundy Says” from the forties into the seventies, and I always had an idea that if the right writer came along that he would be a great history profile. And Dwight just did a spectacular job. And then over the transom came W.C. Heinz. He had collaborated with Vince Lombardi on Run to Daylight. He was one of a half a dozen best sports writers of his era and I knew him through a mutual friend. But on the 25th anniversary of Lombardi’s death he sends me in a reminiscence of his time with Lombardi. And then we got David Maraniss to write coming back to Madison after 25 years, what had changed. Those are the pieces that I remember, when I was able to get lucky and lure some real special writers.
Finally, Doug, finish these sentences:
Brett Favre should... stay retired (my selfish author side coming out).
Golf shoes... are overrated. I used to play barefoot until some bureaucrat decided what they put on the grass is bad for you.
The kid in me… never met a cheeseburger he didn't like.

Brennan's "Three on Thursday"

1. Hitting the Shelves: The Chris Farley Show: A Biography in Three Acts ($26.95, Viking) is due out May 6. Big brother Tom Farley and John Belushi co-biographer Tanner Colby conducted more than a hundred interviews to capture the Madisonian and famous comedian’s life story in the words of those who knew him. Sure, the book will sell—Playboy is about to excerpt it—because it features Chevy Chase, Lorne Michaels and David Spade (who comes off looking petty, even spiteful at times), Madison readers will love the walk down memory lane and admire the Farley family’s Midwestern humility willingness to share their story, warts and all.

2. Here’s what Doug Moe told me about Chris Farley: “I went out with [former TV anchor and Congressman] Scott Klug, and he hosted us for three days in New York, which was really fun. We went to the rehearsal and the show that night, went to the after party. Then that next morning we went over to Chris’s apartment and he made us breakfast. He was a cover story in Madison Magazine in February of 1994.

3. Best Writing in April: “It takes longer for two guys to get picked up than one, so we were surprised 10 minutes in when a faded green, two-door Chevy Nova, the victim of a half-ass chop job, cut hard into the shoulder and crunched to a stop on the white gravel 50 yards up the interstate.” – From “On the road? Hitchhiking isn’t what it used to be” by Andy Moore, Isthmus, April 11, 2008

Poetry in Motion

So I flip to the back of the book, maybe because that’s what Madison Magazine readers do every month (see why here). More likely, though, it’s because the paperback I hold in my hands—a poem of epic proportions—is so new its spine hugs a hundred pages tight like earth clutching skinny blades of grass. I hold the soft cover steady with both hands, and then scan the words on the page with indifference; they’ll be of no use to me.

“This book is set in Adobe Jensen. Jensen is a digital reflection of typefaces designed in fifteenth-century Venice.”

The person who gave me the book loves Italy like a drunk loves gin. But I quickly conclude that the font’s Euro-pedigree isn’t why he picked up Braided Creek, by Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser, for my thirty-seventh birthday last week. (Nor is it the gin.)

While I’d like to think there’s some karmic moment hard at work here, my rational self tells me I ended up at the end of the book by accident. And that the reason my boss chose the raw and sentimental Braided Creek is not because of Italian typeface but instead to high-five the launch of our new poetry column, “A Poet’s Place.” Neil is a huge fan of both poets, who in the book correspond back and forth with one another through short poems after Kooser is diagnosed with cancer. The intimate exchange is published as one long and winding sonnet played out on the page like a dynamic tennis match between two of the best players in the world.

To execute the mag’s new poetry corner, Neil wisely suggested we use Kooser’s free weekly column for newspapers and online publications, “American Life in Poetry.” So like any enterprising editor, I lifted the format in full. Kooser, who served as U.S. Poet Laureate from 2004–2006, picks a poet, writes why it’s inspirational to him, and then shares the poem. But Kooser isn’t podcasting the things of beauty. That was our idea.

Our debut poem was penned by Madison poet laureate Fabu, who, from henceforth, will choose poems submitted to her for consideration at fabu@poetfabu.com. The project is in its infancy and already we have a passel of poets aching to be published. It’s good to be desirable, but I fear (no, I know) that part of this endeavor’s popularity is the dearth of poetry in everyday life. While there is poets’ prose percolating in every corner of this city, you often never know it unless you travel in their circles.

That’s in part why Fabu came to us with her mission “to place poetry in unusual places.” Sure, I’d prefer our magazine not be cast as an “unusual” venue for poetry. In a way that’s sad. And yet I don’t bemoan our heretofore lack of it. Instead I celebrate its place—a poet’s place—now, and in future issues of Mad Mag, as well as on our website.

Calling all poets.

Neil?

###

Here’s how to find poetry all around you: www.madpoetry.org
In August Madison will host the Olympics of poetry slam, with 75 teams of poets from North America and Europe competing in venues around the city. http://nps2008.com/

There She Goes

Hilarious, self-deprecating, and moving on after twenty-five years in the newspaper business, former Wisconsin State Journal columnist Susan Lampert Smith talks about her new job in public affairs at UW Hospital & Clinics, plus juicy stuff, like the real reason she never became an editor, what’s so great about having her own Facebook page, how she got “suckered in” by a story or two, what her first-grade teacher did to her, what she thinks about The Capital Times calling its print edition quits, and lots more.

BN: So let’s not talk about your departure from the State Journal. I feel like I had a great run there, and it’s just over (laughs). That’s just how things are in life sometimes, you know, you realize when it’s time to leave the party.

BN: How would you characterize your writer’s point of view? I’ve just always tried to approach it as a Wisconsin native and somebody who’s loved this area and this state. My family goes back to the 1820s in Wisconsin. I grew up going Up North for vacation and going to Milwaukee to see the Packers play. That’s how old I am—I remember when they played at county stadium. When I wrote my “On Wisconsin” column [1994-2004], it was really great because I got to explore and then tell people about all the cool people and places that I found out there. That was my favorite part of every job.

BN: How did you get your start? I started out as the lowliest person imaginable. I was hired to answer phones for the state editor for $4.80 an hour. I’m not kidding. I clawed my way up. I graduated from college in 1982, which was the last really bad recession and there just weren’t any jobs. I got married while I was in college to a farmer, so I knew I was staying here. So really the $4.80 an hour phone-answering job was a pretty good job.

BN: Do you have a journalism degree? My degree’s actually in Ag Journalism [from UW–Madison] and I still teach there—the department’s now called Life Sciences Communication. It’s really a good department because it’s very hands-on and practical. I started in the journalism school but back then it was huge and you never got to meet your professors.

I actually got very sick when I was a sophomore in college and I ended up in the old University Hospital. It was the lowest moment of my young life. I remember looking out the window and watching all the students walk by in bed sheets on their way to their first toga party, and I couldn’t go. But my [hospital] roommate had fallen off her bike and had a head injury, and three of her professors came to see her in the hospital and I’m like, “What’s your major?” And she’s like, “Ag Journalism.” I’m like “That’s what I want to major in!”

BN: What’s been the best thing about the teaching experience? Being in touch with young people is always great because you find out what’s cool. I’ve had a Facebook page for like five years, which is pretty amazing for an old person. Now admittedly it’s an extremely lame Facebook page but I do get invited to all kinds of beer parties. I think some of that has pushed my desire to get out of newspapers, too, because for years I would always require kids to get the newspaper and I’d quiz them on current events. About five years ago they started really complaining about it. “No one reads the newspaper. We can get this all online.” It’s like a stake through your heart but it really was true.

BN: Who are the best and the brightest young journalists and what are the skills they’re going to need? I still think you’re going to need to be able to write quickly, concisely and engagingly. Because it’s the same problem if you can’t get somebody to read the first three inches of a newspaper story—they’re not going to click to it on a web page. I think it actually ups the ante for being better writers and writing better leads.

BN: My gut reaction to The Capital Times news was, “Wow, you’re going to be relevant again. Isn’t this exciting for journalism.” Yeah I think we’re all really interested to see if that can fly. I hope it does, but there is the worrisome side. If it doesn’t work it’s a lot easier to pull the plug on that than the full newspaper. I hope it works. I hope they figure it out. The basic problem is not to get people to read it. Our readers are still there. It’s just the advertising money. … The challenges in some ways are on the business side, right now anyway.

BN: Is PR a natural fit for journalists because you develop those relationships over the years? I don’t know. More money, which is great! The benefits, working for the state, are fabulous. I think it’s hard to give up journalism because it’s so interesting. You meet new people. You’re learning about new things. And in my job I’m going to be covering all the basic science research in the medical school.

BN: You’re going to be a journalist. It’s going to be the same kind of thing. I’m going to find out the latest thing on fixing my wandering brain or making me live forever… or all the bad things I’ve been doing to myself. It’s really going to feed my hypochondria, though. I’m looking forward to all the new diseases on that.

BN: How is your health? My courageous 45-minute battle with cancer, as my mean newspaper friends call it. I did have malignant melanoma, which can kill you, but if they get it soon enough it’s no big deal.

BN: What will you miss most about the job? What I will miss most is the readers. You’re always getting feedback. “Please do this. Why’d you do that? You’re an idiot! You’re so smart!”

BN: What was the biggest splash a column ever made? I’m not sure because we have a tendency to forget something and go on to the next thing. There are definitely issues that cranked people up. In recent years, I would say the Madison smoking ban. Anytime you write about smoking people go insane. I saw it from both sides because I don’t smoke and I have asthma and I hate cigarettes. And then I also know Mary and Al [Tedeschi, owners of The Villa Tap on the north side of Madison) and I know how hurt they were by that. When you do it piecemeal like that it’s very hurtful on the people and the places that can’t do it when they can across the street.

BN: My favorite dust-up was the controversy over breastfeeding at Camp Randall. That’s what’s cool about being a columnist—you can bring light to these things. I think the people at UW really didn’t get it. They’re all guys. They never thought of this before. When they did they thought, “Well, why would you do that?” Then it got picked up by the radio yellers, and they twisted it to say that I was in favor of bringing babies to Camp Randall, and they don’t want babies at Camp Randall. That really wasn’t what it was about. Women just wanted a place to pump that wasn’t the bathroom. No guy’s ever been through that.

BN: What is the future of the media then if people, as you say, are bypassing the media for their information? Where is the place for these conversations? I don’t know because I really feel it plays an important role in the community. Look at it playing out right now. It’s a small example but the poor guy whose girlfriend was killed in the apartment and the landlord won’t let him out of the lease. They finally backed off when Dee Hall did a story about that. http://www.madison.com/wsj/mad/breaking_news/281508 If you don’t have a daily newspaper and you can’t shame people who need it, what’s going to happen? We’re obviously going to do less of it at the State Journal because they didn’t replace me.

BN: After the State Journal decided to suspend your column, was there a day you just said, “I’m done?” I don’t know. It’s actually harder on my family. My dad is of that generation where they all read the newspaper and he goes to the diner and people say, “Oh I read what your daughter wrote today.” My kids go to school and the teachers read it and they think it’s cool and they talk about it in class. I think I’m over it because I got the bad side of it, too. The creepy, icky voicemails from stalker people. I actually had a stalker come out to my house and take photos of my house and put it on the Internet so people could find me if they wanted to. I got the downside of the local “see the celebrity” thing, so I think it’s easier for me to walk away from it.

BN: Are you spending more time on the farm? I have a date with about a thousand lettuce seedlings this afternoon. [Her new job hasn’t started yet…] When we were young I did a lot of it and then we had kids and I was busy corralling them around. It’s mostly [husband] Matt’s thing and that’s good because we’re both bossy oldest children and it’s better if he does his thing and I do mine.

BN: How was that life-work balance been for you over the years? It was good when I was doing the “On Wisconsin” column because I worked out of my house a lot. I didn’t go into the office as much. Back in those days they didn’t care if they didn’t see you as long as they got your stories. Matt was here, too. I definitely did some interviews from inside my shower while the kids were banging on the bathroom door. I did have the advantage of a pretty flexible job when they were little. And I would take them along a lot. I did a lot of cool stories with them. I took them to pow-wows and buffalo roundups and the EAA.

BN: What do you think about editors—somebody told me once that we’re just a bunch of frustrated writers. A good editor is a precious thing and I’ve had some over the years. The problem is, once you’ve had a good editor, it’s really hard to go back to someone who isn’t. A good editor saves you from your worst faults and helps your best qualities shine. They’re few and far between, and it’s hard in the newspaper business because they’re such grueling jobs. They’re in the bowels of the slave ship chained to the oars with a police scanner. That’s why I never moved up to the editor’s side because I never wanted to do that. I do actually enjoy editing. I enjoy working with my students. But the day-to-day stuff that goes on at a newspaper is really hard. There are very few people that are good at it, and the ones who are tend to burn out and leave.

BN: How do you sit down to write a column? I’m a big procrastinator like a lot of journalists. When I do sit down I write incredibly fast, so I think what I’m doing when I’m procrastinating is getting it all written in my head so I can just sit down and blast it out.

BN: Why did you gain the kind of audience following you did? I think I speak to people from the heart, and directly. I either make them mad or they agree with me. I think it’s because I write simply. I write how I talk. It’s right there, so you like me or you hate me. You pretty much know where I’m coming from.

BN: You have two kids, right? Lily is a junior in high school, and we’re doing all the college tours. Ben is a sophomore at UW–Madison.

BN: How’s he doing there? Good, except he just signed a lease on a place that’s across the street from the [Brittany Zimmerman] murder house. I’m really not one of those worried parents. I think part of that is from being in the newspaper business. Most people who get killed do so by somebody who knew them. These random stranger stabbings are so creepy and weird. And I think students are just the perfect targets for this, too. My kid has the world’s biggest heart. He’s never gone without a meal so if somebody panhandles him he’s pulling his wallet out. You multiply that by 20,000 and you have a lot of potential victims.

BN: What are you most looking forward to about your new adventure? I think it’ll just be fun to learn again. It’s going to be like being in college. I’m excited to learn about all the new research and see if the parts of my brain that remembers things like stem cells and genetic engineering are still alive.

BN: Where will your work appear? There’s a medical school magazine that I’ll write for. Online. Press releases. Not all my job is going to be writing, either. A lot of it is getting publicity for the research. In some ways it’s going to be less stressful than the newspaper. You don’t have the daily deadlines, but it’s going to be stressful for me to have to be in my desk in a chair early in the morning. And be there all day! I’m serious. When I was a kid my first-grade teacher tied me to my chair. Journalism is the perfect job for people with ADD. I’m excited about working with a lot of people I already know and respect and like.

But I’m probably not going to stay at my next job for twenty-five years. Note to self: show some career versatility! That’s one of the reasons I’m doing this. The State Journal said I could go back to writing about rural Wisconsin. I thought about it, but that’s going back. I want to learn something new. I thought about it, and I actually wrote a note to readers that that’s what I was going to do. And then I did two stories and quit. They’re probably wondering what happened to me.

Not anymore. Thanks, Susan, and best of luck on your new adventure! B.N.