Mark Dailey

From 'Everywhere' to nowhere in a flash. This one hurts, Martineau said something along the same lines yesterday, and no amount of celebration and remembering that takes place moving forward will be enough. This is the kind of loss that leaves a permanent hole in the city. Thirty years ago this was the close of the 70's and Mark and a bunch like him grabbed their piece of terra firma and dug in. The Toronto Sun start-up was in 1971 with Worthington et cohorts and Moses Znaimer's television format followed in 1972 with the same kind of gutsy bravado. The Toronto Telegram died and the Worthington team scrambled to put out a determined 'other' voice for the city the next morning. Shoe string budget bolstered by belief and confidence within themselves and their mission. It was breakthrough and I recall the same feelings toward what CITY TV were trying to do with more emphasis on music and culture as in POP. The period between Dailey's arrival and the start ups seems to me to suggest that the sudden emergence of fresh outlets for communication fed directly into what was happening in the halls of Ryerson, Humber and Seneca. Community school graduates in broadcasting or journalism even then maybe 'broadcast journalism' willing to serve their time as interns working their way into a paying gig. The product was raw and unfinished which to some degree was precisely the point. Toronto back then was a mirror, itself full of scars and nasty cuts and bruises of a growing metropolis not yet sure of who or what it would be. That elements of this identity question remain is another subject for another day. The Sun and CITY brand would fall but a few of those troopers hung on to carve and polish their skills and reputations in this 'if it has to be anywhere it might as well be here' role. Dailey stood tall and in my opinion was the only voice I trusted in this city and it's media. He did not make the news, he told it and left the sensationalism to the other hacks. Mark  is one of those figures, who for me, echo the ethos of a Hunter S. Thompson; self-made from the roots of giving a shit and some brains. That this moment of reflection brings to me to thoughts of Crombie and Sewell should make me weep as the day is ushered in by Ford, my friend calls him 'Tommy Boy', as Mayor. The end indeed.


Swordfishtrombones