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As 2014 uncorks, it’s fitting and important to celebrate the enduring legacy of an extraordinary man who influenced generations of reporters—all from behind the burnished counter of a dark
bar in inner-city Dallas. That’s where the mercurial genius named Louis Canelakes dispensed beverages, encyclopedic knowledge and lasting wisdom to hundreds of journalists from around the
globe. Lou, no doubt the smartest man on the planet, passed away late last year, leaving behind not just a beautiful and loving family, but also an imprint on many reporters who shape the
way we view the world. You will be following their work this year and for years to come. And that’s reason enough to ponder Lou’s importance. One writer for _The New York Times _puts it this
way: “He raised me.” His friends told a story about Lou growing up in Illinois, where he was in charge of walking a neighborhood boy home from school. One day the kid veered into the street
and Lou had to yank him out of the path of oncoming cars. It was something Lou would often do after he moved to Texas—he pulled one reporter after another to the right side of the story. In
the mid-1980s, Lou and his brother opened a tavern called Louie’s and it quickly became the most important media haunt in Texas—a distillery of ideas, editorial debates and news leads
unlike anything else in that part of the country. Journalists from near and far huddled with Lou, seeking his expertise on sources, tips, the history of all things Texas, sports, cuisine,
politics, music, weaponry, military history, Greek philosophy, horticulture, horse racing and how to approach the big-time judges, defense attorneys, secret agents, priests, school
administrators and whistleblowers populating the back tables and booths of his joint. Editors glanced up from drinks to see first lady Laura Bush walking in through the small doorway. Hockey
players arrived with the only Stanley Cup ever won by a Texas team. ZZ Top’s promoter hung out in the corner. There have always been places where newsies gather to wrestle with
ever-inscrutable Texas: Warren’s in Houston, Scholz Garten in Austin, The Esquire in San Antonio. These de facto newsrooms are part of a journalism tradition that encompasses the Billy Goat
Tavern in Chicago, the P&H Cafe in Memphis and reporter-friendly watering holes across America But Louie’s surpassed them all. You could see that in the faces of the hundreds of people
paying homage at his standing-room-only memorial service. The _New York Times _guy had dropped everything to fly straight to town; so had the _Boston Globe _journalist and the former writer
for _The Wall Street Journal_. There was a contributor to _The Washington Post _and _Newsweek_. There were stars from Dallas’ WFAA, muckrakers, nonfiction authors, photojournalists, and a
sportswriter who’d won the prestigious Dobie Paisano Fellowship from the Texas Institute of Letters. After the service, I thought about how Lou had taught me so many enduring lessons in
those countless hours when we talked until the sun came up: The best reporters are the best listeners. The best reporters run to cover race, inequality, and folks struggling to find whatever
is left of the American Dream. (Lou spent decades quietly caring for the less fortunate. He kept at least one homeless man alive with hardly anyone knowing about it.) The best reporters
honor ordinary people and loathe glossy pandering and trendy bullshit. Louie Canelakes really did raise a legion of reporters, from Texas to New York. I learned more about life from him than
I did at the three Ivy League schools I went deep into everlasting debt to attend. In time, I simply called him my brother. Lou never worked for a news organization, but the reporters who
loved him, like me, knew him as a role model for pursuing the real truths of life. He pursued them every night at a humble little intersection deep in the heart of a tough Texas city. He
pursued them in his very own street-corner newsroom, where he always insisted to his reporters that love, grace, righteousness and human dignity reign supreme.