Insanity laughs, under pressure we're cracking
Can't we give ourselves one more chance
Can't we give ourselves one more chance
--Under Pressure
Queen, David Bowie
I got my first taste of the news when I was a young sap, watching the great Walter Jacobson with my Dad. It was pretty much an evening ritual--newspaper, Wally, and maybe a little Dan Rather. Somewhere in there, Dad managed to eat dinner. I just can't remember the order of events. What I do remember is that this pretty much sums it up. There was no gluing of eyes to the tube watching talking head after talking head report the same exact story over and over, but with a different touch of flair. There was no getting up early in the morning to share your coffee with two spiffy gents and the token female who should really rethink the amount of time she spends in tanning beds. Reading prepared remarks from a teleprompter or repeating what the producer says in your earpiece is hardly what I would call "analysis," but somehow it passes as such.
I remember Wally with his wrinkled white shirt and tie, relaying information through a glowing glass screen. He looked like he had been on the beat all day collecting his own data, gathering his own clues, talking to his own witnesses. He leaned in so closely that you couldn't help but conclude that you'd better listen, because what he had to say is important and he was only going to say it once. Sometimes, I'd hear the typewriters in the newsroom rat-tat-tatting away with what might have been the morning's stories. Maybe they were prepping for the 9 PM edition, which was almost always different from the 5 PM edition. I remember wondering what it was like to be in that room, finding answers, verifying facts, convincing your editor and producer that you have the breaking story. Must have been something to be a part of that team.
There was something respectable about snippets of news. It's as if the folks in that business said to those of us at home, "It's okay to take a break. We'll keep watching and we'll let you know what comes up. Now, go live your life as you should. Eat dinner. Help your kids with their homework. Mow the lawn. Throw the ball around. Just go away because we are done reporting for now."
Nowadays, the news media seems to say, "You need us more than we need you. Keep watching, because something, somewhere is happening every given moment of the day. If you miss it, you'll regret it." The overindulgence in "analysis" implies that the viewer is not capable of taking in facts and drawing their own conclusions. We have to be told what everything means. Everything.
I resent that.
Last week was a perfect example of how unhealthy an obsession with news can be. I'm guilty of it. I'll admit it. I get sucked into the 24 hour news cycle faster than Dorothy and Toto out of Kansas. Rather than the Wally Jacobson types checking facts and waiting until the 5 o'clock hour to report on the events of the last block of the day, we had "reporters" on standby admitting outright that there is something happening, somewhere, at sometime and if you just stay with them, you'll find out what it is. As a result, there were false reports on one of the biggest stories of the week and an almost complete ignoring of the other big event of the week.
What this leads to is a knee jerk reaction that can't be controlled. That mallet keeps hitting just the right spot below our patellas until we're calling 1-800 numbers to find out more about Restless Leg Syndrome. I ask myself, did I really need to know of the onset of a major event? Yes. As a major attack on the homeland, we all needed to be on alert. Remember the Ides of 911, for crying out loud. People had families and friends whose whereabouts and physical conditions were unknown. Someone had to report the details to the masses.
Did I really need to know the faces of suspects? Yes. It's part of being vigilant. Armed, dangerous and at large are pretty scary words when strewn together. Everyone had a vested interest in making sure these suspects were apprehended.
Did I really need to know that at 10:18 AM, 11:27 AM and 2:39 PM there was nothing new to report? No. Why not? Because nothing new to report, quite frankly means that there was NOTHING NEW TO REPORT. So, take a break Mr. Blitzer and leave it there. Better to report actual news than not-so-new news and get it all wrong. Heck, the closed caption machines couldn't even keep up with the pace of the blathering as one station wrongfully scrolled that the suspect was none other than 19 year old Zooey Deschanel. Come on. I know she's no Katherine Hepburn, but I really don't think her movies are that bad. Well, at least not bad enough to be suspected of terrorism on live TV.
The thing is, folks, is that while the events that unfolded last week were scary and real and visceral and angering and horrifying and depressing and sickening and senseless, there was nothing I could do about it from where I was sitting. We have these professionals masquerading as heroes to take care of it. They have names like first responders, and Boston Police Department, and federal agents, and immigrant guy in the cowboy hat. After much consideration, I've resigned to the fact that it is much better to put my faith in them and pray that they succeed at their tasks. My thoughts are much better applied to asking my god to comfort the families of slain victims and will the survivors to speedy recoveries. My hopes are much better spent on the resilience of one of our oldest cities. My fears are much more appropriately applied to trivial matters such as yet another season as a Cubs fan, wondering if next year is here or if next year will be next year.
Because no good ever came from fearing the unknown. And no knowledge has ever been gained from "nothing new to report."