by William Severini Kowinsky

I could barely speak. 

I was having lunch with the young editor-publisher of the In Pittsburgh alternative weekly in the summer of '89. As a contributing editor and a regular columnist, I had always written about anything I wanted, exactly as I wanted, and smoking was one of my recurring subjects, though by no means the dominant one. But I knew immediately I couldn't change his mind. He was already committed.

"We can't run any more stories on smoking," he said with a slight sigh. "They made that pretty clear before I took the ads."

The In Pittsburgh weekly was taking ads from both Philip Morris, creators of the Marlboro man, and RJR Nabisco, the makers of Salem cigarettes. It was Salem that demanded a ban on smoking stories, and the company's ads were the most extensive and lucrative. Their campaign was called "Salem SoundWaves," consisting of ads, advertorials and public relations events, all aimed at young fans of the newest rock music.

One night, while pondering what to do, I went to hear a band I knew at a club I frequented and had even sung at myself, doing Buddy Holly for their Halloween event "Night of the Singing Dead." As I entered, a smiling young woman in a green and white cheerleading outfit handed me a card to fill out -a chance for a prize, she said -and a small pack of Salem cigarettes. I looked around and saw Salem banners, Salem balloons, more young women and men in clean Salem green and white outfits and more Salem cigarettes at every table.

After the band's first set, a prominent local DJ pulled a few cards and gave away the prizes -Salem sweatshirts and other logo merchandise. I retreated to the bar. "Isn't this awful," I said to someone I knew. "Why" he said. "This is a national company sponsoring a local band. That's pretty impressive, isn't it?"

Hearing of my dismay a few days later, In Pittsburgh's art director came to me with her misgivings. The literal centrepiece of Salem's campaign was a two-page spread in the center of the paper once a month, an apparent potpourri of music news and reviews, including a concert calendar. It was signed, "From the editors of In Pittsburgh." But in fact, she said, they had to call Salem to clear everything that appeared. Salem made them take out the names of groups that didn't support smoking and eliminate from the calendar the clubs that refused to hold the kind of promotional party I had unwittingly attended.

By this time, I was planning the column I wanted to write, and the story was beginning to surround me: a systematic campaign targeting young people, implicating the whole local youth cultural apparatus. Plus an advertiser controlling content and banning an entire category of information throughout the paper.

Motivated by shock and anger, and also the fear common to whistle blowers that if I didn't separate myself immediately, my integrity would be destroyed, I wrote what I knew would be my final column.

"Mr. Butts is back," the column began, referring to the Doonesbury cartoon character. I quoted someone at an art opening saying, "I didn't understand what Mr. Butts was about before, but I do know now."

I concluded, "It's time for people and publications to stand up to the Tobacco Slime and say they won't take it any more."

In a letter to the editor-publisher, I focused on the compromise of journalistic principles. I went to the In Pittsburgh office where people greeted me with smiles, where I was welcome and valued, and turned in the column and the letter that would mean I would never enter those offices again, and would seldom see anyone who worked there.

I tried to enlist the support of a few staff members, and waited for others to call me. No one did. The column wasn't printed, my name disappeared from the masthead. I sent copies of the column with a letter to Pittsburgh's two daily papers. One did a short item in a local tidbits roundup, the other printed most of the letter in its "Letters to the Editor" column. Both papers included In Pittsburgh's official position that there was nothing significantly new enough in my column to warrant the risk of losing tobacco advertising by running it. Not a single Pittsburgh journalist offered me any personal or professional support.

I miss my column and I miss the faith I lost in journalism and in people. Emotionally, I had bitten off more than I could chew. I lost that circle of friends - all the In Pittsburgh people, the rock and club people whose personal relationships were one with their business entanglements. Needless to say, I wasn't invited to play Buddy Holly at that club on future Halloweens. But I am far from being the most damaged victim of the Tobacco Slime.

The Tobacco Slime remain relentless and insidiously active, and extremely powerful. The integrity of what you read or see means nothing to them. The health of the young counts even less.

William Severini Kowinski is a freelance writer and "veteran of the battle for our mental environment." He is the author of The Malling of America. This article appeared in the Winter 1994 issue of Adbusters Quarterly, a Vancouver-based magazine published by The Media Foundation, a "non-profit society dedicated to cleaning up the toxic areas of our physical and mental environment". Reprinted with permission.

Reprinted, with permission, from Smoke-Free for Life, a smoking prevention curriculum supplement from the Nova Scotia Department of Health, Drug Dependency and Tobacco Control Unit, 1996.