CITY EDITION Gary Green spent most of the decade of the 1970s as an award-winning daily newspaper journalist Herein is a sampler of his work during that era.

Beginning In The Early 1970’s and Continuing Almost 10 Years

Photographer Larry Grayam (2010 photo)

old   clothes,   poured   about   a   quart   of   bay   rum   all   over   myself,   and   let   the   Sheriff   lock   me   in with the drunks for the night.                Not   unlike   my   friend   Arlo   Guthrie’s   “group-W   bench”   from   Alice’s   Restaurant,   I   had   a good   old   time   all   night   talking   about   getting   drunk   and   the   crimes   of   the   century   with   all   of my cell mates.                One   of   those   cellmates   was   a   long-time   town-drunk   (of   the   Andy   Griffith’s   “Otis” variety).   In   his   late   forties   or   early   fifties,   it   was   easy   to   see   that   Dusty   (as   he   was   called   by the   other   drunks)   had   fired   his   brain   decades   earlier.   He   was   just   one   happy   drunk   that considered jail to be his place to sleep and get a hot meal between drinking binges.                Dusty   kept   me   company   all   night,   was   the   focus   of   my   story,   and   remained   a   “good-to- see” kind of “friend” whenever I was at the jailhouse to cover a story.                On   this   Halloween   night,   as   I   stepped   around   body   parts   and   blood   puddles,   Dusty   and   the drunk tank were the last things on my mind.                I   counted   at   least   three   legs   and   four   arms,   dismembered   and   hacked-at.   I   stepped   over eyeballs,   pieces   of   ears,   and   internal   organs   that   were   so   butchered   that   I   could   not   identify them.   The   refrigerator   was   near   the   doorway   from   the   kitchen   to   the   living   room   and   it   was there   that   most   of   the   damage   seemed   to   have   taken   place.   I   could   clearly   tell   that   there   were two chopped torsos, decapitated and gutted.                The   trail   of   blood   seemed   to   dwindle   away   toward   the   living   room.   I   rounded   that   corner, having no idea what I might find.                Sitting   on   the   couch,   as   alive   as   me,   was   my   drunk-tank   buddy,   Dusty.   He   had   an   unlit cigarette   hanging   from   the   left   side   of   his   mouth   and   a   wooden   matchstick   from   the   right side.   In   his   right   hand   was   a   blood-drenched   double-bladed   axe   and   at   his   left   side   was another, equally-bloody long-handled axe.             He   looked   up   at   me   and   with   no   expression   whatsoever   on   his   face   as   he   spoke,   “Gary   my friend, you want a drink?”                I   tried   to   stay   calm,   though   in   truth,   my   hand   was   on   the   trigger   of   my   gun   and   if   he   had moved fast I would have killed him. “Dusty, man, what did you do?” He   looked   at   me   and   in   a   very   serious   tone   explained,   “Damned   bitch   tried   to   steal   my   radio. What the hell would you do?”      I took a deep breath, “ah, right. I see your point. So, tell me about it. What happened?” I   don't   know   what-the-hell   I   was   thinking   to   not   run   out   the   door   and   call   the   cops,   but   I   was playing reporter.                He   explained   to   me   that   two   years   earlier   he   had   bought   an   all-band   radio   from   Radio Shack;   the   kind   that   would   allow   him   to   listen   to   short   wave,   television,   and   even   airplanes. He   had   invited   two   close   friends   to   his   home   to   see   the   radio.   One   of   the   two   picked   up   the radio and joked “I am going to take this home with me; it is nice.”               When   she   did,   something   snapped   in   his   brain.   He   slapped   her   and   instantly   her   boyfriend drew a knife and sliced at Dusty. Both left in a huff.                For   two   years   he   planned   his   revenge   and   finally   on   Halloween   night   he   invited   the couple   over   to   let   “bygones   be   bygones.”   He   told   them   to   help   themselves   to   a   beer   in   the refrigerator   and   as   the   opened   the   refrigerator   door   he   pounced   on   them   with   an   ax   in   each hand.                “I   am   fuckin’   glad   I   killed   them   and   I   would   do   it   again,”    he   told   me   as   he   described standing over their bodies and raking the axes through them.                At   that   moment,   it   occurred   to   me   that   the   police   would   arrive   soon   and   I   was   now   a material   witness   in   a   capital   murder   case.   I   needed   to   get   out   of   there   and   not   let   it   be   known that I had entered the house.               The   only   place   I   had   left   fingerprints   was   on   the   outside   of   the   screen   door…   though   I   had left   bloody   footprints   everywhere.   Hopefully   the   cops   would   contaminate   the   crime   scene   so badly that they would not notice my footprints.                I   told   Dusty   that   the   police   were   on   the   way   and   he   should   not   tell   them   that   I   was   there. He   agreed   but   added,   “I   don’t   think   they   will   come;   I   done   called   them   five   fuckin’   times   and they   told   me   I   didn’t   kill   no   damned   body. And   I   had   another   guy   call   them   too.   Police   don’t care about Black people”                   I   promised   him   that   I   would   get   them   to   come   if,   in   return,   he   promised   to   forget   I   had been   there.   He   agreed   and   I   wrote   my   newspaper   story   the   next   day   as   a   straight   report   taken from the police blotter and interviews with the detectives.                   I   carefully   left   out   any   “insider”   information.   The   story   is   all   about   a   strange   call   a neighbor   made   to   a   local   police   sergeant   who   knew   Dusty   and   didn’t   believe   he   would   kill anyone. The   focus   of   the   story   is   the   interview   with   the   cop;   as   if   I   had   never   talked   to   Dusty. In   fact,   other   than   to   my   co-workers   at   the   newspaper,   to   this   day   (35   years   later   at   this writing)   I   have   never   revealed   my   “inside”   interview.   And   I   still   won   a   press   award   for   the story.                   That   is   the   kind   of   reporter   I   was…   very   hands   on   and   in   the   field,   even   if   the   story could not reflect it.                One   night   I   was   riding   with   the   head   of   the   vice   squad, Andy   Strain,   and   his   plains-clothes undercover   man   as   they   were   en   route   to   arrest   a   major   heroin   dealer   at   his   home.   Strain   got a   call   from   the   dispatcher   to   switch   to   the   “private   channel”;   the   channel   that   was   on   a frequency   which   police   scanners   (and   hence   “civilians”)   could   not   monitor.   Once   on   that channel,   the   dispatcher   told   the   vice   sergeant,   “We   just   got   a   tip   that   the   subject   you   are going   to   see   is   heavily   armed   and   may   launch   an   attack   when   you   pull   up.   Do   you   want   me to send some black-and-white (police cruisers) as backup?”                Strain   was   sitting   in   the   backseat,   passenger   side,   his   customary   spot.   Officer   Floyd,   his assistant,   was   driving   and   I   was   in   the   front   passenger   seat   of   the   unmarked   police   car.     Hearing   the   ominous   warning,   Strain   took   a   deep   breath   and   spit   the   juices   from   his   plug   of tobacco.   The   brown   spit   sailed   across   the   front   seat   and   hit   the   windshield   where   it   dripped down   into   a   waiting   Styrofoam   cup;   the   sergeant   always   spit   is   tobacco   from   the   backseat   to the   windshield   and   into   a   cup.   He   keyed   the   broadcast   button   on   his   walkie-talkie   radio, “Negative   to   that   backup.   We   have   three   good   men   here   and   shotguns   in   the   trunk.   We   can handle the S-O-B.”                I   felt   my   back   stiffen.   I   looked   at   Officer   Floyd   and   at   Sergeant   Strain   and   counted   “one- two” and then I turned to Strain, “who the fuck is the third good man?”                “Well,   two   of   us   can   cover   the   door   and   a   third   man   needs   to   kick   in   the   front   door,”   he explained.   “And   the   one   that   kicks   in   the   door   should   be   the   worst   shot,   so   the   two   good shots can cover him. Who do you think should kick the door in?”                The   Gary   Green   of   today   would   say,   “are   you   out   of   your   fuckin’   mind?   I   am   a   reporter not   a   cop.”   Actually,   it   would   have   been   a   more   Bones   McCoy   like,   “Damnit   Jim,   I   am   a doctor not a brick layer.”                   Nevertheless,   at   21,   I   was   there   for   the   adventure   and   five   minutes   later,   we   had   parked on   a   side   street   and   were   crawling   on   our   stomachs   toward   the   house. About   50   feet   from   the front   porch,   Strain   signaled   for   me   to   jump   up,   run   to   the   door   and   knock   it   open.   I   took   a deep   breath,   ran   the   15   yards   to   the   wooden   porch,   stomped   across   the   porch   and   but   my weight and shoulder to the door. It didn’t budge…at all.                   I   looked   back   at   Strain   and   he   signaled   me   to   do   it   again.   I   walked   to   the   edge   of   the porch   and   ran   as   fast   as   I   could   toward   the   door.   This   time   I   jumped   into   the   air   and   kicked both   feet   against   the   door   as   hard   as   I   could.   Again   the   door   didn’t   budge,   but   I   fell   flat   on my ass on the wood porch.                   Strain   signaled   to   do   it   again   as   he   and   Officer   Floyd   began   approaching   the   house   in   a crouched   run.   This   time   I   gave   the   door   the   hardest   kick   I   could,   with   all   my   weight.   Once again the door stayed firm and once again I fell on my ass.                   By   now,   I   had   made   so   much   racket   on   the   porch   that   the   occupants   of   the   house   had been   alerted.   The   guy   they   had   come   to   arrest   peered   through   a   window   that   opened   to   the porch.                Seeing   me   there,   he   opened   the   window   and   stuck   his   head   out,   “Who   the   fuck   are   you?” Obviously,   from   looking   at   me,   I   was   not   a   cop…and   I   had   a   long   history   of   fucking   up   raids and stake-outs for Strain (even down to crunching on potato chips in a “silent” stake out).                   What   could   I   do?   The   two   cops   were   still   out   of   sight   and   not   with   me   yet.   I   reached beneath   my   coat   and   jerked   out   my   .snub-nose   38-special   and   put   the   barrel   against   his forehead.   I   started   screaming,   insanely   I   am   certain,   “You   are   under   arrest   you   motherfucker; make a move and I will blow your fuckin’ head off. Don’t fucking breath or you are dead.”                Apparently   my   insanity   was   working,   because   this   fool   was   more   frightened   than   even   I was.   He   did   not   move   and   barely   breathed.   “Please   don’t   shoot   me.   Just   calm   down.   Don’t shoot…plllll-ease,” he whined.               Tears   began   streaming   down   his   face,   “Don’t   shoot   me   man,   just   calm   down.   Please   don’t shoot me.”                A   second   later,   the   two   cops   were   at   my   side   and   had   stepped   through   the   window   to make   the   arrest.   I   sat   down   hard   on   a   padded   chair   on   the   porch.   If   I   had   been   an   older   man with   good   sense,   I   probably   would   have   had   a   heart-attack.   But   at   21,   what-the-hell.   I   pulled my camera from underneath my jacket and began snapping pictures for the next day’s paper.                   Once   again   I   wrote   the   story   as   if   I   had   pulled   it   from   a   police   report   and   had   access   to some really good interviews. I think I won a press award for that one also.                That   was   my   whole   shtick   as   a   journalist;   getting   myself   into   the   middle   of   situations   and allowing   the   readers   vicariously   to   live   out   the   adventures…though   my   life…without   ever having   to   leave   the   safety   and   comfort   of   their   little   worlds.   That   is   why   a   review   of   my newspaper   clips   shows   a   collection   of   stories   like   “Reporter   Spends A   Night   In   Drunk Tank”; “Reporter   Poses   As   Blind   Beggar   At   Shopping   Mall”;   “Reporter   Dresses   As   Santa   Clause and Hitchhikes On Interstate;” to the more bizarre stories like the double ax murder.                In   fact,   in   one   year   I   arrived   on   the   scene   of   30   murders   before   the   police   arrived. And   in all 30 of those, the “alleged” perpetrator was still present.                I   had   worked   out   an   arrangement   with   one   of   the   dispatchers   that   if   he   would   call   me   at home   before   he   dispatched   a   patrol   car,   I   would   mention   his   name   in   the   story   as   some   kind of   hero.   A   typical   example   would   be   something   like:   Police   Dispatcher   John   Smith   acted within   seconds   to   prevent   a   second   homicide   by   locating   not   only   the   closest   officer   but   a nearby   Lieutenant   who   also   sped   to   the   scene.   Smith’s   quick-thinking   allowed   police   to arrest…etc.                In   exchange   for   such   an   in-print   bribe,   I   would   be   allowed   to   break   all   speed   limits,   run red lights, and arrive at major crime scenes before the cops arrived.                The   hands-on   approach   happened   by   accident,   not   by   plan.   In   fact   my   entire   journalism career   was   either   by   accident   or   con;   take   your   pick.   Most   of   my   readers,   and   friends, assumed   that   I   had   become   a   journalist   at   the   time   of   Woodward   and   Bernstein   to   ape   the great American heroism of the fourth estate.                   In   1789   Louis   the   16th   was   planning   the   future   of   France   with   a   committee   he   called   the “Estates   General”.   The   1st   estate   was   the   church;   the   2nd   estate   was   made   up   of   French nobility;   the   third   estate   was   a   congress   of   “commoners”.   As   an   historian   looking   back   on that   gathering,   ultra-conservative   Whig   Edmund   Burke   noted   that   the   most   important   of   the governmental   “estates”   was   the   unseen   “Fourth   Estate”   —the   press   which   would   watchdog the other three gatherings of scoundrels.                I   should   claim   such   noble   motives;   but   the   truth   is   I   had   gone   to   journalism   school   at   the University   of   Tennessee   because   writing   seemed   to   be   the   only   talent   I   had   other   than   music, and   in   my   mind   the   two   were   somehow   related.   During   my   first   quarter   of   school   (in   those days   universities   had   three   quarters   rather   than   two   semesters)   I   almost   left   journalism forever.   The   Dean   of   the   College   of   Communications   told   me   that   I   would   never   work   at   a newspaper   because   I   am   not   disciplined   enough   to   be   a   reporter.   I   immediately   stopped taking   journalism   classes   and   spent   my   remaining   college   career   organizing   against   the Vietnam   War,   for   Civil   Rights…and   raising   money   and   supplies   for   the   American   Indian Movement   that   had   seized   Wounded   Knee   South   Dakota.   (It   was   during   that   period   that   the term “gun runner” was involuntarily attached to my resume.)                   After   my   first   Pulitzer   nomination   was   accepted,   I   sent   a   copy   of   the   acceptance   letter, along   with   a   jar   of   Vaseline®   to   the   Dean,   with   a   nice   note   telling   him,   “you   probably   don’t remember me, but those who CAN do; those who can NOT, teach.”                   With   only   two   years   (albeit   too-many-credits   for   those   years)   of   college   behind   me,   my only   job-experience   being   manager   of   an   X-rated   drive-in   movie   theater,   I   returned   to   North Carolina   and   looked   up   the   name   of   the   editor   of   the   newspaper   in   the   town   where   I   had graduated   High   School.   I   waltzed   into   his   office   as   if   I   had   even   met   him   (which   I   had   not), extended    my    hand    and    said,    “Mister    Williams;    Gary    Green.    You    remember    me!    You promised   that   when   I   graduated   from   journalism   school   you’d   have   a   job   waiting   for   me here. So here I am. When do I start?” The next day, I was a newspaper reporter.                   Ten   years   earlier   the   local   police   department   had   hired,   as   a   patrolman,   a   ruffian   little alligator-wrestling   police   chief   from   a   Louisiana   swamp   town   of   6,800   people.   They   teamed him   with   an African American   patrolman,   creating   the   first   such   interracial   team-up   in   North Carolina,   and   sent   the   two   of   them   to   calm   down   the   angriest   roughest   section   of   the   little town.   The   white   officer,   Andrew   J.   Strain   became   legendary   locally   for   his   leather-wrapped lead-filled blackjack, hot temper, and tobacco-spitting brawls.                   I   moved   to   the   little   town   for   my   last   year   and   a   half   of   high   school,   just   as   Strain   had been   promoted   to   head   of   the   local   vice   squad.   His   visits   to   our   school   were   punctuated   by his   Jack-Webb-like   tirades   on   the   evils   of   “mary-ju-wanner",   “your   LSD   acid”   and   other “hard-core” drugs of the “hippy variety.”                   I   was,   in   fact,   one   of   those   hippies,   myself,   and   a   frequent   user   of   “mary-ju-wanner”, “your   LSD   acid,”   and   a   host   of   other   evils   that   he   equally   mispronounced   in   comical   hillbilly dialect.   One   more   than   one   occasion   I   was   stopped,   searched,   and   harassed   by   Strain   and   his goons.   In   the   hey-day   of   the   hippy   movement,   A.J.   Strain   and   his   “undercover”   officers where   middle-aged   men   with   1950s   greased   back   hair,   conservative   conversation,   and   a dictionary of television slang for drugs (“have any reefers, daddyo?”).                  At   one   point   he   “arrested”   (never   actually   charged)   me   and   threatened   to   tell   my   parents and send me to jail unless I agreed to “narc” for him and catch “drug pushers.”                   I,   of   course,   told   my   parents,   who   called   the   chief-of-police   and   told   him   to   cut   the   crap. At   the   same   time,   I   took   $25   from   the   taxpayers,   via   A.J.   Strain,   bought   five   nickel   bags   of marijuana   and   a   restaurant-size   jar   of   oregano.   I   put   about   a   fourth   of   one   nickel   bag   of   pot   in with   five   times   that   much   oregano   and   sold   it   to   the   cops   as   a   “lid”   I   had   bought   from   “a mysterious biker that I met at an Interstate rest area.”                   Free   weed,   at   16-years-old,   courtesy   of   the   local   vice   squad!   Hell   my   friends   probably thought   i   WAS   a   "narc";   but   on   more   than   one   occassion   I   assured   Strain   that   the   target   of   an investigation   was   totally   wrong.   After   that   adventure,   and   his   failure   to   make   cases   against anyone, I was never again called on or even stopped by Strain and company. But   five   years   later,   when   I   returned   as   a   newspaper   reporter,   it   was   Andy   Strain   who   (for whatever   reason)   took   me   under   his   wing   and   gave   me   complete   open   access   to   an   amazing array   of   stories.   It   was   indeed   the   same   Sergeant   Strain   that   sent   me   to   kick   in   that   door…   as well as on dozens of other adventures of the same ilk.                   So   on   December   1st   of   1975   when   Sergeant   Strain   called   me   to   his   office,   I   was   psyched for   another   adventure.   “ Buddy,   it   is   no   secret   that   I   would   rather   ‘whup’   a   man   than   listen   to him   talk.   I   have   arrested   1,100   as   of   last   night.   And   I   have   spent   the   last   ten   years   fighting communists;   they   are   the   ones   that   introduced   drugs   to   our   kids   to   boggle   the   minds   of   our future leaders,” he told me as if setting up something important.                   He   continued   with   a   sudden   swelling   of   pride,   “I   became   a   ‘POE-lice’   to   help   people   and for   the   life   of   me,   I   can’t   see   how   putting   a   man   behind   bars   helps   him.   Gary,   my   heart   is filled   with   love   now   and,   honestly,   I   can’t   say   that   I   hate   anybody, That’s   why   I’m   getting   out of police work and going into the Lord’s work.”                   Thirty-one   days   later   Sergeant Andy   Strain   became   Reverend Andy   Strain   and   took   over the   congregation   of   a   nearby   church.   He   split   his   time   between   preaching   and   running   his   40 hunting   beagles   through   the   North   Carolina   woods.   And   once   again   I   got   one   hell   of   a   fine story.                   Almost   every   story   was   an   adventure.   From   shootings   and   stabbings   to   undercover investigations, to…hmmm…                One   Friday   evening,   after   everyone   had   left   the   newsroom   but   me,   a   nice   woman wandered   in   and   asked   to   speak   to   a   reporter.   Being   such,   I   volunteered   by   services.   She explained   that   her   name   was   Rosalyn   Carter   and   her   husband   was   the   Governor   of   nearby Georgia.   She   told   me   that   he   was   planning   to   run   for   President.   In   a   condescending   tone   that can   only   be   mustered   by   cynical   21-year-old   newspaper   reporters   and   Presbyterian   preachers, I patted the nice lady on the arm and asked “President of WHAT?”                I   assured   her   that   the   Governor   of   Georgia   had   about   as   much   chance   of   being   elected President   of   the   United   States   as…   well,   as   I   did.   Nonetheless,   I   called   in   a   features   reporter and facilitated a nice interview.                Just   about   the   time   that   Strain   retired,   the   publisher   of   the   paper   called   me   into   his   office. “I   have   been   reading   your   stories,   and   I   know   you   think   you   are   going   to   change   the   world   as some kind of crusading journalist,” he began to lecture me.                Nothing,   of   course,   could   be   further   from   the   truth.   I   never   wanted   to   be   a   journalist,   I bullshitted   my   way   into   the   job,   and   the   reality   was   that   I   was   just   a   glorified   adventurer   who got to do things others only dreamed of…plus I got to write about it.                Of   course   there   were   dozens,   no...scores   of   other   adventures,   celebrity   interviews,   trips, shootings,    investigative    reports,    government    corruptions…most    “above    and    beyond”    the typical reporter fare, because of my hands-on-live-it adventure style.                Hell,   I   often   even   told   people   that   I   am   “a   professional   adventurer”   rather   than   a newspaper   reporter   or   a   journalist.   And,   in   truth,   I   had   brought   distinction   to   the   newspaper for   some   of   my   stories;   with   very   little   embarrassment   (other   than   the   Chief   of   Police   calling the   Editor   to   report   that   he   had   seen   “radical   intelligence   files”   on   my   civil   rights,   Native American,   and   anti-war   activities).   But   on   this   day,   in   the   publisher’s   dimly   lit   office   with   its thick red carpet, I listed to the lecture.                “Let   me   tell   you   about   crusading   journalists   changing   the   world,”   he   continued.   “That   is not   how   it   works.   Gary,   you   are   a   whore;   a   prostitute.   You   write   what   I   tell   you   to   write about.   You   write   the   length   I   tell   you   to   write,   in   the   style   I   tell   you   to   write,   with   the   slant   I tell   you   to   write.   I   use   the   product   you   create   at   my   direction   to   sell   advertising,”   he continued,   seemingly   without   breathing.   “You   are   just   a   whore;   my   whore   right   now.   If   you don’t like that, then you are free to go sell yourself to someone else. It really is that simple.“                I   was   unsure   what   sin   I   had   committed   to   bring   down   his   wrath,   but   I   blank-faced   looked on   as   he   ranted   at   me.   It   was   not   clear   if   I   was   being   scolded   or   given   fatherly   advice   for   my future.   He   concluded,   still   without   emotion,   in   an   almost   monotone,   “It   is   nothing   personal;   it is   just   the   way   the   world   works.   I   wanted   to   have   this   little   talk   with   you   so   that   you understand   that   you   are   just   a   little   whore   and   I   buy   and   sell   whores   for   dimes.”   At   that,   he dismissed me to return to work.                  At   the   time   it   outraged   me;   but   on   “mature”   reflection   years   later,   he   was,   sadly,   correct. But   at   the   time   it   became   a   contributing   factor   to   my   decision   to   leave   the   newspaper...   and after four more newspapers to leave journalism. The   other   big   factor   in   my   departure   was   actually   the   double   ax   murder.   It   was   not   the gruesomeness   of   the   story   nor   the   events.   It   was   the   fact   that   it   did   NOT   bother   me.   If   I   was so   battle   hardened   at   my   age,   what-in-the-hell   would   I   be   like   by   the   time   I   was   40?   Think about    that;    murdered,    mutilated,    destroyed    bodies    meant    nothing    to    me…killing    meant nothing…death   meant   nothing.   That   is   a   dangerous   and   psychotic-building   outlook.   I   got   out while I could.

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More than 1,000 newspaper and magazine bylines;     Gary Green's first career was as a newspaper journalist and like most of his endeavors and adventures it was completely “over the top.”     Before his 25th birthday he had won more than a dozen Freedom Newspaper Story Awards and before he was 30 he had been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in Journalism… twice.     Of course, hundreds are nominated for the Pulitzer and a nomination is not a win; but it is indicative of the kind of journalist Gary Green became.     His hands-on-live-it style of writing was often more of a chronicling of his own adventures, escapades, and exploits than unbiased five W’s (Who, What, Where, When, Why / How).      Nonetheless, his in- service training in those days when hot-type was being converted to offset printing, of old-school waxing machines, headline writers, copyboys, and city editors gave him a firm base in classic newsroom operation. The narrative to the left is Gary’s own account of his newspaper career. The links below are some of the “clips” of his writing of the era. Click on a link below:

NOTE: The articles and clips provided here are all from one newspaper near Charlotte North Carolina. These are the only  digitized records from Gary’s thousands of stories in his newspaper days of the 1970s. Sometime in the next few years, we anticipate digitization of some of the few remaining newsprint- paper articles. We will post them as they become available.