Remembering Daryl Gale: The big man with the big laugh

How did a $5 hamburger special turn into an international incident?

The answer to that question begins with the big man with the big laugh, a big talent and an even bigger heart.

Former City Paper senior writer Daryl Gale, who died last week at age 55, had a special ability to connect with anyone anywhere. And an incident in June 2002 illustrated that as much as anything else about him. 

During a weekly staff meeting, Daryl pulled out a letter he had received from the owner of St. Jack’s, an Old City watering hole that was typical of the kind of joints he haunted. With his booming voice, his body shook with convulsions of laughter as he regaled us with the story behind the letter. It was a complaint that had been written the day before to bar manager Sherry Levin about an ad that had been published in City Paper. It was from an unhappy representative of a foreign government.

The ad featured a doctored version of the Thai King Bhumibol Adulyadej as a bling-bling hipster with stone-studded shades, blond highlights in his hair, lines shaved into his head and an Adidas logo on his royal uniform. It was, unbeknownst to us at the time, an affront of the highest order in the “Land of Smiles,” which had become the “Fortress of Frowns.”

As always, Daryl had a number of stories cooking and was tied up working on a cover story about Islamic prisoners and another one about how easy it is to be a fake cop. So while he worked on those, I wrote a column about the ad, and, long story short, Thai Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra reached out to the U.S. State Department to complain about our ad.

All thanks to Daryl and the $5 hamburger special.

A life lesson, young journos out there. Be like Daryl. Get out of the office and embrace what is around you.

The big man with the big laugh beseeched me ceaselessly.

It was in the late 1990s and as an editor at City Paper, I was once again looking to hire a reporter. The big man with the big laugh didn’t quite have the investigative track record I was looking for, but he had a whole lot more. And being Daryl Gale, he used his unique blend of external gruffness, unrelenting enthusiasm, intimate knowledge of the City of Brotherly Love (and Sisterly Affection for all you old heads) and an incredible way with words to convince me that he was the right guy for the job.

Gale was not your typical alty. He was older. A veteran. He had traveled around the world with the Coast Guard.

And he turned out to be the Philadelphia City Paper’s first African-American staff writer.

We were, in obvious ways, very different people. But we had far more in common and quickly became friends.

Basically the same age, we enjoyed the same cultural reference points and would spend hours talking about people, places and events that the younger members of the staff might have read about in history books, or, most likely, had no clue existed.

A recent post on his Facebook page was a prime example: Paladin’s business card. Between us, there was no need for explanation. We both knew that, substitute pen for gun, and that described our own ethos. (For the young’uns out there, try Google.)

It didn’t take long before Daryl and I were referred to as the “silver backs,” a designation given to the older gorillas in the band, which is what a group of gorillas is called. It was a moniker especially fitting considering another thing Daryl and I had in common was a love of music, especially blues and jazz. He was a mighty fine bass player, I played blues harp.

™ Daryl’s career as a journalist, public-affairs specialist, press secretary and media consultant spanned more that two decades. At the time of his death, he was a columnist and city editor of the Philadelphia Tribune. 

I was thinking about Daryl the other day. It is journalism awards season and many a time he and I saddled up and headed off to collect the hardware, of which Daryl, with his talent, collected plenty. Then came a Facebook message from a mutual friend.

“Daryl passed.”

He had been found dead in his apartment in Deptford, N.J.

Memories flooded back.

All the amazing stories, from getting inside a dog-fighting ring to taking down scam artists, and so many others. Our thrill in meeting Richard Roundtree (Shaft!) at a party hosted by then-Congressman J.C. Watts during the Republican National Convention. Daryl’s booming, basso profundo, intoning sarcastic outrage about “the tragic events of 9/11” anytime someone tried to use that horrific day for their personal gain.

And a couple of his great turns of phrase that I have adopted for my own lexicon: “Crappity,” for anything that could be described as subpar, and “big doings” for some momentous occasion or breaking news event.

As I remember Daryl on Father’s Day, I know this. No matter what, I know that he loved being a dad, loved his daughter, Kristen, very much and his ex-wife, Cynthia, too.

Daryl Gale’s death leaves a great void. For Philadelphia. For journalism. And most of all, for his family and friends.

See you on the other side my friend.

Semper Par.